Grief

Grief is ugly. That's all Cuddy can think as she stares at Dr. Wilson, half slung over the shoulder of the paramedic who both holds him up and holds him back.

Wilson's face is contorted, mouth drawn back in an alien grimace, a parody of a grin. His skin is mottled red, and seems wet, even where it is not covered with tears or snot. She can hear him from where she stands across the sterilely lit ER, gasps and sobs, like a man that's been punched in the gut.

The only thing about the picture that does not make her want to avert her gaze is his eyes. The whites are blood-shot from the salt tears, but the brown orbs radiate such palpable anguish that it is captivating. How can emotion that strong exist?

What scares her most, as she stands there frozen, is that this is Wilson. Oncologist- so inured to death that a trauma psychologist would not even presume to try with him. To help him have such a natural reaction as to feel. And yet, the man could no longer stand on his own, the anguish ripping through every inch of his being. It must have been someone important, Cuddy thinks, before she shakes herself and crosses to find out who the body is, lying under that sheet.

The End.