Asystole ✷ Mark Sloan

𝟬𝟮𝟲 pray for the wicked

𝙓𝙓𝙑𝙄.
PRAY FOR THE WICKED

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IT WAS MONDAY morning and I was doing something I never quite thought I would do again: jogging.

I decided to do something highly out of character to start off the week; I stuffed in my headphones, blasting some fitness music and gave myself a long and painful pep talk.

Over the weekend, I'd tried to do exciting things, I'd painted my toenails (after spending an hour or so fishing through my toiletries to find the same varnish I'd worn regularly back in New York), showered with fancy scented candles and even gone through the painstaking process of finding a pair of running shoes at a sports store at the end of my street.

So on Monday morning, I jogged around the block, finding it hard to even make it across the road and down past the hospital, getting out of breath by the time I'd left my apartment building behind me. It was a short job, but I'd persevered.

I'd been determined to try and do something healthy, as let's face it, my body was bound to give up with all of the abuse I'd inflicted on it. So, even if that meant leaning against a lamp post and trying everything to hide my long, death-rattle like breaths as I attempted to steady my heart-beat, then so be it.

When I returned home, I showered, shrugged on some heels and poured myself some coffee. I'd finally taken time to unpack some of my lost trinkets and things from home-- a few bottles of perfume that I hadn't touched in a decade loomed on my dresser and I paused.

One of the scents had been something I'd discovered in some Macy's store on Christmas Eve in Manhattan, when I'd been last-minute chasing a gift list for the holidays. I'd initially bought it for Addison, but then I'd tried the tester and decided that the classy floral scent was something that I really needed to perk up my walk.

The other one, I couldn't remember quite where I'd picked it up, but it was my favourite one, I remembered that.

It reminded me of happy memories, so I decided to cheer myself up.

A sudden spritz and I was out of the door, walking pointedly over the road and towards the hospital, hair tousling in the wind from a surprisingly nice day. Seattle traffic was light this time in the morning, it was early but not too early to stop the sun from peeking through the light trails of wispy clouds in the sky.

I liked the sound of the city in the morning, the hum of traffic, the drawl of ambulance sirens in the distance as the hospital trauma department ran full-steam ahead, all alongside the click of my heels as I powered my way through the plaza and down, towards the reception.

But just outside of the doors, I halted, my eyes drawing up to the sign on the wall, the sign that had once proclaimed "Seattle Grace Hospital." I clutched my coffee tightly as someone ambled up beside me, following my gaze-- Cristina, who also nursed a cup of coffee glanced over at me with a sour expression.

She didn't look too happy with what she saw.

A maintenance team were in mid-progression of altering the logo on the side of the Hospital. The words of "Seattle Grace Mercy West Hospital" were slowly coming together, causing an uncomfortable feeling to twist in my stomach.

I briefly exchanged a look with Cristina and the surgeon frowned in a disgusted manner.

"Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse," She drawled, mostly to herself but I couldn't help but agree. I'd quite liked the name Seattle Grace Hospital, it had a nice tone to it. This, on the other hand, didn't. "It's like some sort of infection-- one becomes two, two becomes four, four becomes eight... Next thing you know, you're dying of consumption."