Twisted Hate (Twisted 3)

JOSH

DidI wait until Jules left before I stepped out of the shower like a coward? Possibly.

But I’d rather be a coward than deal with the awkward morning after goodbye. Our arrangement was supposed to eliminate that awkwardness by setting clear boundaries and expectations, but of course, the weather had to fuck it all up on our first night.

If I ever made it to heaven, I was going to have a long, hard talk with God about timing.

I was still irritated with myself for letting Jules sleep over when I arrived at the hospital, but the chaos in the ER quickly wiped away any thoughts of my personal life.

Strokes. Knife wounds. Broken arms and legs and noses and everything in between. They flooded the emergency room in an unceasing, back-to-back wave, and the work week following Hyacinth was so insane I had zero time to agonize over my sex pact with my little sister’s best friend.

Jules and I did squeeze in a few quickies, none of which ended in a sleepover or cuddling, thank God. But for the most part, it was all work, all the time.

Most people would hate working such long hours, but I craved the stimulation—until I hit one of Those Days.

I had good days, bad days, and Those Days—capital T, capital D—in the ER. The good days were when I walked away knowing I’d made the right interventions at the right time to save someone’s life. The bad days ranged from patients trying to assault me to a mass casualty incident when only me, my attending physician, and a few nurses were on duty.

Then there were Those Days. They were few and far in between, but when they happened?

They were devastating.

The unending flatline of the monitor drilled into my skull and mixed with the roar in my ears as I stared down at my patient’s closed eyes and pale skin.

Tanya, seventeen years old. She’d been driving home when a drunk driver T-boned her car.

I’d done all I could, but it wasn’t enough.

She was dead.

One minute she was alive, the next she was gone. Just like that.

My breaths rushed out in ragged pants. After what felt like an eternity but was, in reality, a minute at most, I lifted my head to find Clara and the techs staring back at me, their expressions grim. A faint sheen shone in Clara’s eyes, and one of the techs audibly swallowed.

No one spoke.

“Time of death: 3:16 p.m.” That was my voice, but it sounded strange, like it was coming from someone else.

After a moment of silence, I walked out. Down the hall, around the corner, and toward the designated relatives’ room where Tanya’s parents waited.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Everything sounded muffled except for the echo of my footsteps against the linoleum floors.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

I’d lost someone in the ER before. During my first year of residency, I treated a patient who’d been shot in the chest during a random drive-by. He’d succumbed to his injuries within minutes of arriving at the hospital.

There was nothing I could’ve done; he’d been too far gone. But that didn’t stop me from walking out of the trauma bay, into a bathroom, and throwing up.

Every doctor lost a patient eventually, and every death hit hard, but Tanya’s socked me right in the gut.

Maybe it was because I’d been so confident she would pull through. Or maybe it was because she barely had the chance to live life before death snatched it so cruelly from her.

Whatever it was, I couldn’t stop a destructive swarm of what ifs from crowding my brain.

What if I’d made a different call during the treatment process? What if I’d reached her earlier? What if I were a better doctor?

What if, what if, what if.

Thud. Thud. Thud.