Disclaimers: ER isn't mine. Jing-mei isn't mine. Kerry isn't mine. Malucci isn't mine. The kid with Marfan syndrome isn't mine.
I did not kill that man. Malucci killed him with incompitence. Weaver killed him with negligence. I am not to blame. I am not at fault. Marfan. It's obscure. Ask your average Tom, Dick or Harry walking down the street and they'll point you to the psych ward.
How was I supposed to see it. Yeah, he had a dissecting anurism, and yeah, his heart looked like a marf's. But his face, his build, it wasn't all that marfanoid. With hindsight, he looked it. I didn't see the xray. Why shouldn't I have believed Dr. Dave Malucci? He wasn't an intern. Idiot. And Weaver, she should've been there. And she covered her ass. Bitch. At least he admitted it, she didn't have the nerve.
I am gonna laugh when I see her burning in hell. It'll mean I'm there, but I'm gonna laugh anyway. And Malucci? He can go screw himself. Who am I kidding? He probably already does, when he can't get a paramedic to do it.
But where's he gonna go? He may or may not be a good doctor. I wouldn't want him treating me. Not for somethign major, anyway. But he could be good, in the right context, guided by the right hand.
It all sucks. Screw her, screw him. The world can kiss my ass.
Hospitals will be lining up. Or at least, there'll be one for me. Shit. Am I proving my mother right? Shit.
Fuck it all.