2. Luna
Night shifts are all the same in the trauma department.
Busy, loud, chaotic.
Tears and wails and grief are the soundtrack to my workdays. There is the thick scent of blood, like it’s taken up permanent residence inside of my nostrils. Then there’s the bleach, clinging to everything like death has disguised itself with the eye-watering scent, wrapping itself around this part of the hospital.
My white, rubber clogs are silent as I run down the wide corridor. Wheeling the resuscitation trolley back to emergency room two from five for the sixth time tonight. There”ve been two stabbings, both of which were fatal, and now I’m tearing back down the hall for the fourth gunshot wound, the three people before now in body bags beneath us in the morgue.
The success rate here is low.
Well, it is when I’m on shift.
That’s why the others call me those nasty names.
They think I’m a bad omen.
The double doors fly wide as I smash the metal trolley through the entrance. One of three doctors stuffing gauze inside the open chest wound of a large man as another grabs the defibrillator.
Everyone moves in a blur around me as I take several steps back, out of the way to let them work. I’m not a real nurse, I’m just a night shift healthcare assistant. I check blood pressures, take bloods, ask patients how they are feeling, dress wounds and check stitches. I’m also the person who does the clean up.
Once this room is finished with, I’ll be sprinkling a spill kit over the puddles of blood on the grey-speckled, white lino where it leaks from the body atop the gurney. I’ll be disposing of the bloodied couch roll, the gauze, needles, and sterilising various medical instruments.
I stare unseeingly ahead, my back to the doors, my eyes on the scene.
Chaos.
Sweat beads on my nape beneath my thick black hair coiled into a large bun at the base of my neck, rolling droplet by droplet down the pale curve of my spine beneath the dense fabric of my sky blue scrubs.
There are a dozen bodies in this room, the air thick with stress, the temperature hot with pants of quick breaths, but adrenaline keeps each of them moving, breathing, working.
I imagine what their hearts look like banging around erratically inside their chest cavities. How hard they hammer to force blood through their veins. They’re doctors, nurses, medical professionals that are used to this type of pressure, but I wish, not for the first time, that I could see beneath their skin.
Hands by my sides, I circle the pads of my index fingers over each of my thumbs, then run my thumbs along the lengths of my middle fingers.
Waiting.
For what’s to come.
The inevitable.
Death.
The thudding of the body against the table is loud, the sound of another attempt at dragging a soul back into its shell using sudden shocks of electricity. I’ve witnessed this all tonight already, nothing really successful came of it then, I’m not particularly hopeful now.
“Beaumont!” My head snaps up at hearing my last name. Doctor Swiftson glares furiously at me from the corner of the room, the front of her green scrubs saturated with blood, “Get that family into the waiting room and out of my corridor, girl!”
Swallowing, I fist my hands, only just hearing the commotion at my back, now that my attention has been drawn to it. I turn, facing the windowed doors where a group of large men are all standing, peering in through the windows.
Pulling the door open just wide enough for me to squeeze through, I slip through the small gap I create and find myself almost backed back into it as I let it close, my hands flat against it.
Immediately, they all shout at once, demands, questions.
Is he okay?
Is he alive?
What’s happening in there?
My eyes ping between each of them, three large men, tall, muscular, all with similar colouring, tanned, olive skin, dark hair, dark eyes. Each of them dressed differently, but all of them are coated in blood.
“Come with me to the family room,” I tell them quietly, my voice a low rasp that I rarely use unless I have to. “Then I can get a doctor to come and speak with you.”
“No. We’re not leaving our brother in there!” One of them barks, making me flinch back. “We’re not going anywhere.” He pins me with dark eyes sliced with shards of green, his hair a straight flop shoved messily away from his blood-smeared face. “Not until we know if he’s gunna be alright.”
The second man says something then, his features similar, a long white scar slicing through his right brow, his face screwed up into a snarl, something menacing, angry.
The third man stands between them, dressed so perfectly, a pressed suit, his hair slicked back and parted to one side, his eyes like endless black pits. There is dried blood along his jaw, his cheek, but he is otherwise perfect in his appearance. He silences the other two with nothing more than a look, and then those eyes come to me, and it feels as though the floor falls away beneath my feet.
Instinctively, I shrink back, knocking into the doors, the fabric of my scrubs getting pinched in the opening as they swing a little and close, snagging me backwards, making my feet stumble. But the suited man reaches out, his hand on my elbow, catching me before I can fall. He releases me just as quickly as he aided me, pushing his hands into the pockets of his black slacks as though touching me was a mistake.
“We are worried about our brother, I am sure you can understand that,” he says politely, his voice deep, loud, assertive, proper, every word pronounced perfectly.
I glance over my shoulder, through the glass, the crash team works on the man on the bed, too many people crowding around him to see, but I suppose this is natural. What they feel. Fear, I suppose, at the unknown. Someone they love in the hands of strangers. Fate the only thing at play here.
I’m sure it wouldn’t help them to hear what I have to say about that.
That a gunshot wound to the chest, the bullet still squirming its way around inside of the heart doesn’t usually end well. I can only see one foot, a black boot, the laces hanging limply from the suede shoe, shaking like little worms with every jostling movement the medical staff surrounding him make.
A doctor moves out of the way, revealing another who has his hands, painted wrist deep with blood, hovering over the patient’s chest, and one of the men around me makes a pained sound. Slowly, turning back to face them, I find the smartly dressed man’s obsidian eyes still fixed on me.
“If you’ll let me take you to a room just off of this corridor, I can go back in there and find out what’s going on for you,” I tell him gently, my heart lurching in my throat as the angry looking man with the scar through his eyebrow growls at me. “I don’t want them to call security and kick you out.”
The man directly before me eyes pinch, but he nods, albeit reluctantly, his hands coming free from his pockets, “We will not be placed out of ear shot,” he tells me lowly, authoritatively, and I find myself nodding at the negotiation.
“Please, come with me.” I push between them, trying not to brush them as I squeeze through.
I lead them to a staff lounge that doesn’t see much use here in this department, always so chaotic, no one ever manages to snag a sip of water, much less a break. But it has couches and a water dispenser, a restroom at the far end. The three men file inside the brightly lit room, all of them in black clothing makes them look a little obscene in the sterilely decorated space. Once they’re inside, they all turn to look at me, and it feels more than a little intimidating, like three predators and their potential prey. It makes me think of home with my uncle’s guards, and I feel myself shrinking back.
“I’ll come straight back as soon as I know something,” I tell them with a nod, my eyes on my feet as I start to back out of the room.
“Hey,” the man who shouted at me calls, and I flick my gaze to his. “Don’t let my big brother die, okay, sweetheart?” His voice cracks, making me swallow.
That’s an impossible promise to make, and I feel the pressure start to weigh on my shoulders, instantly curling them inwards, an attempt at making myself smaller.
I don’t really understand grief. I don’t remember ever losing someone and feeling sad about it. It’s always just been me and my uncle Nolan.
Names the others call me out on the ward rattle violently around inside of my head. Mocking and jeering. How I always only seem to bring death. Every patient I’m in the room with dies. Because of me.
But I nod a lie to the man with the weak smirk before backing out of the door.
I hurry down the hallway, the white walls seemingly endless. This weird feeling of suddenly wanting this man to live feels as though someone is pressing down on my shoulders, pulling at my insides.
The doors swing open as I reach them, the room emptying fast, and the man on the trolley is being pushed out of the room. Oxygen mask over his face, wires and tubing over his arms, padding over his chest. I see glossy black hair, sallow skin, dark brows over closed eyes, but before I can get a proper look at him, he’s rushed on by. Another team of doctors waiting for him at the opposite end of the hall.
This is good.
A good sign if they’re not leaving him there. They’re still rushing. Moving quickly. That means there’s hope.
That means death has not yet come.
Nurse Barker steps out of the doors, the last one in the room, she looks at me, pulling the blue mask from her face revealing wrinkled lips and a dimpled chin. “They’re going into surgery, tell the family, and then get this cleaned up.”