Scrubbed Clean
After the flatline, I needed more than just an external scrub.
I shouldn’t tell you this, but I lost one tonight. We worked on him for thirty-five minutes and cracked his chest right there in the bay, but his pressure never rose above the floor. I’ve lost before, but it’s never easy, and it hits you deep every time it happens.
I walked out of the trauma bay, stripping off my gloves. The smell of antiseptic soap, Betadine, and that distinct, coppery scent of failure clung to my skin. You wash your hands, but you can’t wash that off.
This is the part of the job that grinds you down. The adrenaline crashes, leaving a hole. A hollow, vibrating ache that starts in your bones and settles deep in your gut. Fatigue and guilt... they twist. They turn into a different kind of hunger.
I needed... an anesthetic. I needed to be reminded I was still alive, still a body. I needed to get the day to be fucked out of me.
I didn’t go home. I couldn’t face the silence of my apartment. I just walked. Ended up at the park.
The air was cool, damp, smelling of cut grass and diesel fumes from the highway. My body was thrumming. I wasn’t Dr. Lukes anymore. I was just an animal, hunting.
He was near the east path. Tall. You could see the muscular build even in the shadows, broad shoulders that filled out his jacket. He was walking with the same restless energy I felt. He wasn’t lost. He was looking.
Our eyes met.
