Hospital of Hell

Nine

Scarlett

The last three days have been spent slaving my time away in the hospital. My body hurts, hell my mind does too.

Trauma after trauma, surgery after surgery. An endless cycle that will never end for as long as I am still breathing.

However, a case we had today was different. It's a trauma I can't unsee. A five-year-old boy, shaggy brown hair that was tainted in blood of an enemy that was never his. He had three stab wounds to the abdomen and one to the side of his neck. An endless stream of red flooded bay three with the innocence of a child who never asked to be brought into this world.

I did everything I absolutely could. I pushed every medication available, did compressions until my arms literally gave out and Kemble had to pull me from the child's lifeless body.

Daniel. I heard his name in the midst of the screaming. Between the doctors and the patient's father being screamed on and hit by the mom.

"I told you, Travis! I fucking told you this would happen!" Her voice still sounds fresh in my head as I picture her hands beating against his bloody chest as he stood there stuck in a daze he put himself in.

Apparently Travis had stolen from a rival gang, a hefty amount of raw cocaine. They came back for it, and once they learned he had already sold it they made a decision.

A decision to murder a five-year-old over fucking cocaine.

I let out a scream, kicking a crash cart that's plugged up in the hall. A sob racks my body as I stare down at the blood covering my body.

Any other time this would be normal to me, being covered in blood that is. I take more showers here in a day than I take in a week at home. But this wasn't like any other time. This was not just a case of grown men being men. Moments like these are the reason healthcare is so vastly understaffed. Who genuinely wants to see this shit every single day? We live in people's worst memories of their lives. After one loss we move on to the next as if that life didn't matter. That is the job.

"They're fucking cowards, ball-less bastards that deserve to rot in fucking hell!" I yell out to whoever is around. Most of the staff that was in the trauma bay with me followed me out.

This is not normal for us. Rarely do we see kids in here for reasons like that, and I've only seen one other child in that condition other than Daniel.

Everyone is baffled, confused on the emotions they're feeling.

"A fucking five-year-old, Christ," Kemble mumbles out, his hands resting on his head.

I rapidly dry my face, rushing to go and change these scrubs. I walk with my head down. I'm not used to showing emotion like this here. I see devastating stories and deaths almost daily. My emotions had to become guarded early on.

I need a drink. Maybe six.

"Scarlett," a deep voice causes my head to snap up, diverting them from the fading tile on the floor. My cheeks feel puffy, and my eyes swollen. I look like a hot pile of shit.

Yet here he stands, the Don himself. He must be on his bad side of his bipolar personality today. A subtle scowl rests on his face, his forehead wrinkling a bit. His arms are crossed, and once more two goons stand behind him.

"What?" I huff out, defeat clear on my features. I'm not in the mood to bicker nor to be yelled at. I just want to leave, bask in my sadness by my lonesome.

"Let's talk." Is all he says, turning on his heels. I'm assuming that's his way of gesturing me to follow him but I can think of twenty ways he could've asked nicely.