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Why was everything so cold?
He stared down at the OR floor, at the vague glow the hallway light gave the tile. At his own reflection in the stagnant puddle below. He sat there calmly, with his legs folded underneath him and hands gently placed on his knees. He couldn't see his eyes in his reflection; the hall light turned his lenses opaque.
The doctor shivered lightly. What was going on? Everything felt so...cloudy.
The light in the hallway clicked off. With an almost mechanical motion, he raised his head. Ah, his shift was over...
He stumbled to his feet. Yes, that meant it was time to head home. He adjusted his glasses and started shuffling to the entrance. Exit? Where was he going? Either way, it was much quieter than he was used to in the halls. The normal amount of people were there. Most of them were looking at him, actually. A few seemed to try and get his attention. Their lips moved, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. After half of a "You've been sitting in there for hours," he decided not to try and read their lips.
They wore such sad faces. "Don't worry," he spoke quietly, stopping to wipe his eyes. He couldn't help but cry when they looked at him like that. "I'm heading home." He felt like he should say something else. He looked above the crowd and kept walking. "Is it just me, or is it colder than normal in here?"
Somewhere in-between the fluorescent lighting and the night sky, he'd passed by the front desk and through the hospital doors. The walk home wasn't long, and purposefully so. He needed to be close at all times, in case of an emergency. His home was a humble little place (as were most places, with the Crusades having only just ended), but a comfortable one. The chill didn't let up on his way home, however; his fingers felt as if they should've been blue by the time he made it. In all honestly, it felt more as if if they shouldn't be there at all. Static.
The door creaked open, and he quietly stepped inside. His teeth chattered. It wasn't cold. He still had his coat on. He froze (cold, cold), because there was
there was something
on
on his coat.
"No, no, please," He muttered, curling in on himself. Everything hit down at once. "I can't..." Blurry, everywhere. Where was he? What was he doing here? His breathing grew more frantic by the second. "Why did I leave, if I need to stop the bleeding..."
He covered his face with his hands, shaking. Had he been crying since he left, or earlier than that? His eyes were sore. He was babbling, and wasn't exactly sure what he was saying. The nurse wasn't here to hand him the syringe. Was she?
She wouldn't stop bleeding. He didn't do anything wrong, he couldn't, so why was it happening? Did it happen? He didn't make a mistake; she should be fine. He ran that thought through his head over and over again. He didn't make a mistake; she should be fine. She should be fine. She should be fine.
Look at her. How could you just let someone die like that?
The sink wasn't the best place to vomit, but his legs didn't want to support him at the moment. He laughed, shakily wiping his mouth with a cloth. How could you? Accidents happen to other people, they don't happen to you. You didn't make a mistake, but you let her die anyways. Did you mean to do it, then?
Everything hurt. From a distance, he watched himself retch again.
If you didnt mean to, that means you made a mistake. You know that, right? He finally took his glasses off, setting them on the counter. He slumped over right next to them and buried his head in his hands.
So you admit it. Everything spun while he stood still.
"It wasn't—" He coughed and hacked. "...wasn't an accident." It was more out of denial than anything.
So you meant to do it.
He pushed off the counter, awkwardly stumbling into his bedroom. The chill followed him, static numbness sitting heavily in his bones. He collapsed onto the mattress with an empty expression.
There was still blood on his coat.
"I don't think I'm going in tomorrow."