Original Creepypasta: Please don't fear the Reaper
…
It's been ten months since it happened.
Death just...stopped. We weren't dying anymore.
On the surface that sounded fantastic; after all it made it sound like we were just like Merasmus; immortals! But there is a difference between him, and us: death isn't something he is ever supposed to meet anyway. We, on the other hand, have always been supposed to, but stopped.
As a Medic, my job is to take care of and heal the members of my team. And believe me, this small difference has made my work shift quite significantly.
Sure, it seems great when the Spy with lung cancer comes in my infirmary, complaining of chest pain. Clinically, he is dead from a heart attack. But aside from some discomfort, he can still be sent home to his family during his furlough. They get more time together.
But that's the best case scenario.
Two weeks ago, a Pyro from the other team chased down one of our Scouts and burned his body so badly the flesh was just falling off of his bones. Today, I have a torso and not much else locked in a supply closet because all he can do is scream and flail. No eyes, no tongue, no limbs to communicate with. I don't know what to do with him.
After that 'incident', I retreated to my isolated office, popped open my flask, and downed a significant amount of pills. I rested my elbows on the table, feeling the pounding of my pulse in my temples as I tried my best to cope.
And that's the kind of thing my job has become. I am more 'Engineer' than Medic. People come in with damaged parts, and I try to make them functional again.
A Demoman comes in after being pushed off a cliff by an enemy Soldier. More than 60 percent of his bones are broken, shattered. There is no way to set them to get to where they will function again. In the old world he would have passed. Today, his blind mother takes him home, to lay in a bed for eternity.
More pills. More booze. More pounding temples.
Medbays are overflowed and many of my colleagues have quit their jobs. It has become quite common to see the streets infested with wounded warriors laying on the side of the road, or in dumpsters, or actually buried alive, as their families are unable to cope with the concept of caring for an invalid body for eternity.
More pills. More booze. My health declines.
Yesterday, a normal Engineer came in, complaining of difficulty breathing. Upon exam, I found out that he had suffered a massive stroke the night before. Again, before, he would have passed. Now he had to deal with all his automatic bodily functions shutting down, and the task of having to take them over consciously. His pain was from forcing air into his lungs where before his body did it for him.
More pills. More booze. I don't feel well. My temples absolutely hammer.
Today, a Heavy was decapitated. Now I have to figure out what to do with a talking and breathing head.
In my office, drunk and high as usual, I rub my temples, feeling stillness under my fingertips.
My eyes snap open. Shit.