Chapter Text
The rush of feeling like a thirteen year old boy again almost brings him to his knees. He’s had to do this before and as much as he’s tried not to think about it ever since, the similarities are too much to ignore.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed, it’s late. Marlene, tell your kid to go back to bed. He knows better than this.”
“Well hold on for a minute, Pat, he looks upset. Will, honey, are you alright?”
“Dr. Halstead,” a firm, almost exasperated voice brings him back into the present, “are you alright? Are you here in this room with me?”
“Yes, yes. I-I’m sorry, Ms. Goodwin,” he stamers, cursing himself internally for doing so.
“I should hope so considering you’ve come up here and decided to take up even more of my time. What would you like to speak about this time? You can plead your case again but I’m not Jennifer Baker’s lawyers–”
“It’s not about that,” he cuts in, wincing at the mention, “I mean– maybe, a little bit it’s about that but– I need a break. I need some time off.”
“Dr. Halstead,” she says after a sigh, “you know I can’t do that for you right now, even if you wanted to. Any change in your work attendance looks like the hospital taking culpability, and I know you know why they can’t happen.”
“I’m not– I wasn’t right, you were right.”
“Yes, I’m aware.”
“I-I need… I know it looks bad but I made the wrong call and I need… I need to work through some things in my head to make sure it doesn’t happen again. I can’t lose my medical license.”
“Though I doubt you’ll actually lose your license for it, you should have thought about that before you went against a DNR,” she points out before her voice and glare let up a little, “I appreciate you acknowledging your wrongdoing and wanting to sort yourself out, but I can’t give you time off without jeopardizing the hospital. In the meantime, you know that you are being very closely monitored downstairs. Even if you wanted to, no one is going to let you pull another rogue move in the ER.”
“Ms. Goodwin, I know but–”
“I know this is very stressful for you, even if it was entirely of your own doing,” she chides him, “and I genuinely would love for you to take some time off for the hospital’s sake and for your own sake, but you know I can’t cut you any slack here. I’m sorry, William, but unless you want to quit, you won’t be getting any time off here.”
He should have known it was hopeless from the start; of course he can’t take time off without the hospital coming across as punishing him, an inherent signal of his guilt and the hospital’s guilt. He feels stupid, raw and disposed and though she’s trying to stay professional, he’s no doubt yet again acting as a thorn in her side.
He’s worsening and worsening her view of him, and there’s no way he’ll get hired at Med at the end of the year as an attending, and everything is fucking slipping from his fingers because his brain is starting to feel waterlogged again and–
“Dr. Halstead, I want you to speak with Dr. Charles,” she says, waving him off when she can tell he’s ripe to protest, “you don’t have to actually see him as your care provider if you don’t want to, but he can give you a referral to someone you can talk to. It’s in both of our best interests if you don’t lose your head, yes?”
Lose his head. Yes, he thinks he’s done that before. He’d rather not do it again.
He nods, not trusting himself to speak without all of the thoughts whirring around in his head tumbling out his mouth.
“Take the rest of the shift off,” she sighs, and he’s fairly certain he’s just imagining the hint of sympathy in her tone, “go home and try to relax, and then be back here on time tomorrow and try again, alright? You’ll feel better in the morning after taking some time to decompress today.”
He nods again, attempting to put a half smile on his face.
He gives her a polite wave, hoping he’ll either die of the embarrassment and/or that Sharon will never mention this ever again. He’s halfway through the door when he hears her call his name.
“Dr. Halstead?”
He turns back around, raising his eyebrows in interest.
“You have made my life here hell,” she says bluntly, “but just because I’m concerned with keeping the hospital from going under does not mean I want this to take you under either. Do you understand?”
He doesn’t understand why she’s even bothering to give him even the slightest bit of kindness considering just how badly he’s screwed up, and he’s still rendered wordless. He nods, hoping she doesn’t see the slight wetness around his eyes before he’s gone.
Down the hallway, down the elevator, out into the parking lot.
He enters his car and remembers being 13 again.
“Will, baby, are you okay?” his mother asks again, ignoring her husband trying to hush her. He hadn’t responded when she asked if he was alright the first time; he feels stupid in front of his father.
He shakes his head no, and then his mother steps forward and holds him, cradling his head on her shoulder. The tears slip through his eyes before he even realizes he was holding them back and then he’s trying to keep the soft hitches of his breath from turning into sobs. His father is still in the room, after all.
“What’s going on son?” his dad actually asks, but he can hear the awkwardness and strain.
“Will, honey?” his mom tries again, “tell us what’s wrong, okay? We can’t help you if we don’t know what’s wrong, hmm? What’s bothering you, sweetie?”
“I-I don’t know,” he whimpers, closing his eyes shut tight, “I just feel… wrong. I don’t know how to explain it. I’m sad and tired and scared and I don’t know why.”
He shakes his head to try and forcibly bring himself back into reality, not wanting to relive that conversation in its entirety, at least not at the moment. He’s not strong enough.
He’s not strong enough because that same wrong feeling is back and he had done his best to push it deep down and away from himself but that’s why he’s been screwing up lately, isn’t it? Because whatever is wrong with him is back, and maybe he had never escaped it in the first place.
It’s why he broke that DNR and played God, wasn’t it? Because his skull feels too thick and he can imagine his brain rotting into silly putty. Because it’s really about his mom but he still can’t stop himself from trying to exhume her. And it’s why he’s so awful to Natalie– god, the kid pulling the girl he likes’ pigtails was such a piss poor excuse. He does, of course, like her, but he certainly should be able to control himself as an adult. He’s snapping at her and losing it when she’s around because she’s the only one who can pull a reaction from him at all.
This time he’s fifteen.
He’s fifteen and his mom has snuck him into a therapy appointment every few months, but not any more often than that because she can only pull so many ones over on his father.
She loves him, it’s normal she tells him. Lots of people go through things like this.
But his dad’s voice is always louder. He’s fine, he just needs to toughen up. Being a teenager is hard. Life is hard. He’ll be alright, he just needs to buck up. There’s nothing wrong with him, but when his dad says that it only makes him feel like there certainly is something wrong with him.
Normal don’t walk around feeling like their chest is trying to drown itself and like their brains are just scrambled eggs.
His mother loves him. So does his dad, in his own way, as his mother always says.
He’s sitting in history class and thinks about killing himself for the first time, only for a second.
He sinks his nails into the palms of his hands, breathing in through gritted teeth, and willing himself not to think that way again. There’s no real reason to throw his life away.
But the shame sits heavy in his stomach.
There’s something wrong with him.
He was born with something wrong with him.