I'm covered in the blood of George's father. I'm covered in his blood.
Burke is sitting on the wooden two by four we call a bench, staring at my locker.
And I'm covered in the blood of George's father.
I turn on the shower to drown out the sound of my tears, and I slowly strip the powder blue scrubs soaked with the indiscretion of keeping secrets from my trembling body.
Tears mix with lukewarm water as I try to rinse off the guilt, rinse off the hurt, rinse off the pain.
I hear the shower curtain pull back and I look up to see him, but his expression is unreadable.
"Burke, I'm sorry." I whisper, turning away from him, as I continue to clean up, "You can go home..."
I hear his shirt hit the ground, and I feel his hands on my shoulders, then I feel his arms enfold my body, and the tears begin to fall more freely.
"I'm sorry, Burke..." I weep softly. "I'm so sorry."
"You didn't call her." he whispers, placing a kiss on my shoulder.
Her.
That bitch.
That woman.
That woman that saved George's dad from the brink of death that Burke and I took him to.
He rinses the blood from my neck, the strands of hair where it splattered, and we get out of the shower, I glance down at him as I wrap up in a towel.
"Your pants are all wet now." I sigh.
"They're just pants, Cristina." he reassures me.
Nothing is right today. This is all wrong.
When can I wake up from this?
Our call room conversation haunts my mind.
The baby, the shooting, the tremors, they all saturate my mind like the blood that saturates the scrubs in my hands.
Can't he seem I'm trying?
He slides a strand of wet hair from my forehead then trails his hand down my cheek sending shivers down my spine.
"I'm...I'm on call tonight." I mutter.
"I can stay with you."
"You need your rest. You should go home." I mumble.
"You're pushing me away." he persists.
"What do you expect?" I snap, throwing my shirt down. "Because you seem to expect me to be riding your coattails in this relationship. You expect me not to feel hurt, or anger or anxiety, or any emotions at all. I'm just the robot, right? Right, Burke?"
He doesn't reply.
He can't even look me in the eye.
"You said it all right there."
I pull my shirt over my head, and turn on my heel to exit the room.
"You've never even said that you love me, Cristina. What am I supposed to think?"
I stop, my hand frozen on the door, "This has nothing to do with what I have, or haven't said. Don't try to blame this on me."
"You don't seem to feel anything! You don't seem upset about us, you don't seem upset about what's happened today, you're the same cold, complacent Cristina that you've always been!" he spits, out, pulling at my arm. "Stay here and talk to me."
I do the only thing I know to do in this situation. I grab the back of his head and I kiss him. Hard. Passionate. Meaningful. I put all of the turmoil of the day, all of the pain of the day, everything, I put into the kiss.
It's still not the same that it used to be.
It's not the same way it used to feel.
The spark has faded.
We have faded.
"Can't you ever just talk to me?" is the only thing he says when we pull apart, and I rest my head upon his chest.
"I don't know how." I mumble. "I don't know how to get through to you."
"That makes two of us."
I stand back and look at him.
"You need to figure this out. I'm tired...I'm tired of carrying all of this on my back." he states matter-of-factly, as if we were talking about a business agreement.
It's eerily reminiscent of when he broke it off with me.
I kiss him, and he accuses me of making him shoulder the entire relationship.
"I can't talk right now. I'm on call." I mumble, and I jerk the door open and walk away.
I walk away from the fight.
I walk away from him.
I walk away from us.
I just need to clear my head.