The madness of a memory, which busies itself among forbidden things.
Pairing: John Carter/Lucy Knight, John Carter/Abigail Lockhart (if you squint). Word Count: 2,250. Rating: The M rating is for swearing, descriptions of death, gore, and one vague nod to Abby's alcoholism. Summary: On Valentine's Day in 2000, Lucy was stabbed and killed by Sobriki. Carter was never attacked, and, instead, he worked on Lucy in the last moments of her life. Many things were left unsaid. Two years later, he visits her grave on the anniversary of her passing. Abby holds space for Carter to work through his feelings of grief and guilt to see what's on the other side. Before you dive in: Carter and Abby are just friends with tension at this point, there's no Susan/Carter. Excerpt:
The gate looms in the distance, rising higher into the black of night, the closer he approaches. He can’t help but think it’s a mouth grinning wide with thousands of meaty, metal teeth. It’s more than that. Iron fortified into an eternal prison. He wonders how people might react if he showed them his fear—this place, this gate, and what it forces him to acknowledge over again and over again and over again.
I think I should give up the ghost, (don't hurt me, don't hurt me) In your arms. (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
Carter stands at the nurses’ station, drumming his fingers anxiously against the counter. The nurses bustle continuously around the reception desk. They are bees buzzing around their hive—protecting their territory—except instead of emitting a monotonous hum, hospital gossip and patient information wafts lazily around his head. She is sitting at one of the charting stations with a thick, file open in front of her.
“Abby.”
She stares up at him from her seat, rubbing the tension out of her eyes. He says he’s leaving now. There’s no “where” or “why” or “coffee and pie later?” Barely even a goodbye, which is unusual for him, at least the version of him that she has the privilege of knowing.
“Okay,” she sweeps the hair that’s falling across her eyes behind her ears, while offering him her heavy, speculative gaze. She hopes it comes off as understanding and not prying, but these days any look between them could be gleaned through a thousand different lens.
He gives only a sad smile and nod as his response.
Abby glances towards her coworkers, but none of them seem to suspect Carter’s behavior. Was he acting strange or was she just hyper focusing on him? She decides the answer is both, but what she can't see yet is that Carter is her favorite book: impossible to put down, worn and comfortable in her hands.
“Excuse me, I have a Valentine’s Day delivery for Haleh. The instructions just said to bring it to the ER reception desk.” A man stands on the other side of the counter, staring down at her expectantly.
“Oh. Well, I’m not Haleh, but I will make sure she gets it.” The man nods in appreciation, and hands her a heavy glass vase, teeming with red roses. The cloying scent floods her senses almost immediately. It’s too much, which has always been her issue with fresh flowers, but especially roses.
These would be better dead.
Her throat closes momentarily, thick with sudden and unexpected emotion. Something is wrong. Something is rocketing to the forefront of her consciousness with dizzying speed. She knows where he’s going. She brokenly laughs to herself, otherwise she will start crying. It’s bitter tasting, and burns the entire way through like the heartburn she gets after drinking too much wine.
Frost covers the pavement and roofs of the parked cars. His feet crunch loudly as fat flakes of snow drift lazily to the ground. It takes him fifteen minutes, and the slow repetition of his steps helps to momentarily quiet his brain.
It’s almost midnight. He’s grown up in Chicago. It’s in his blood—whether he likes it or not. He may be a spoiled rich kid, but working at County has made him more street-smart than most. Those few souls he passes seem to determinedly avoid his gaze.
The gate looms in the distance, rising higher into the black of night, the closer he approaches. He can’t help but think it’s a mouth grinning wide with thousands of meaty, metal teeth. It’s more than that. Iron fortified into an eternal prison. He wonders how people might react if he showed them his fear—this place, this gate, and what it forces him to acknowledge over again and over again and over again.
Abby had asked him three separate times, during their time together at work, if he was okay. Carter had given a vague, non-answer in response; each time she brought it up. In a moment of weakness, he now wishes he had asked her to come with him. (She would have without hesitation; and he knows it.)
He takes a deep breath—the deepest one he has taken so far today. His hand reaches for the metal latch--it’s freezing--hand stinging painfully, he draws back in surprise. The cold helps to ground his body to the physical plane, but does nothing to soothe his racing thoughts.
It’s a short walk, two consecutive lefts, and—one, two, three—he counts the stones, letting his fingers drift lightly over their rough tops. He stops abruptly in front of the third stone in a row that stretches along the dirt trail.
Lucy Elizabeth Knight
March 11, 1978 – February 15, 2000
His fingertips dip into the grooves created by the writing etched into the smooth stone surface; as though he was reading a slightly skewed version of braille.
Carter can’t miss the irony of the attack happening on Valentine’s Day. It was one, big slap in the face. John had never truly cared about celebrating it to begin with, but now he can only see it as a reminder of loss, both his and Lucy's. The crystal clarity of his memories hits him in full force, his body thrumming with an uncomfortable tension.
Luka had run by him adjusting the stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck, “Carter, we need you in trauma two, now!”
It had been a slow day, suture kits and paperwork circling in an endless circuit. Standing in the hallway, he had hurriedly donned the necessary P.P.E. and pushed his way into the--already crowded?--trauma room.
“What do we got?” he flexed his fingers in the latex gloves, rocking slightly on his heels. His mind and body were keying up for trauma, in a way that was very different from the rest of his job as a doctor.
It wasn’t until they had lifted the patient—“one, two, three!”—, transferring them onto the table from the gurney, that his eyes had turned to the person laying limply in front of him.
His eyes had landed on her, and he had immediately been struck by the amount of blood—oh, fuck, the blood;—there was too much of it. It made his stomach cramp sharply. He had frozen as it traveled up the length of his gloves, staining them a deadly solid shade up to his knuckles and then higher and higher.
THISISLUCY had been the only thing he was capable of comprehending. It had played like a scratched C.D. skipping and looping through his mind, it's only purpose to drive him mad—LUCYLUCY.
He had watched as she crashed, as the defibrillator had been wheeled over and the paddles shoved into his hands. He will never be able to wipe from the inside of his eyelids, the image of her lifeless body snapping with tension, each time the electricity shocked her. He had become frantic as he prepped the cart again—eventually it had to work, right?
Lucy was too young, too kind, too talented, too beautiful, (too perfect for him).
At this point, Carter lost any sense of time—had it been two minutes or two hours since they started working on her? Luka touched his shoulder cautiously. He still startled.
No words exchanged. Only a glance at the wall clock. “Time of death…21:25.”
The others in the room were in shock, silent and still as stones. This was the first time one of their own had been lost; stolen from them right under their fucking watch.
He hid inside the empty exam room, where the staff sometimes took naps during or between shifts. No one had followed him, afraid to barge in on his explosive grief, and catch a piece of shrapnel.
Why hadn’t he been smart enough, fast enough, fucking good enough to save her? If only they had found her body sooner. The chest and abdominal cavities looked as though they’d been passed through a grater. Carter felt a wave of nausea shock through his body.
For three years, he had been her resident and mentor and…and...no.
At first, they had fought constantly, but soon he looked forward to their banter. He had enjoyed watching her find her path, find herself. He had enjoyed, even more, when she kissed him with quiet confidence--despite the consequences.
“I’m a doctor…you’re a student,” he had begged her. The closest they had been to something. Something that would have broken his moral code, yet secretly, he had wanted it, wanted her. Looking back, he had needed those words for his own benefit, as well. Negative reinforcement for the both of them.
Don’t fall in love with your—impossibly smart and funny and infuriating--med student. It had to be written in stone, or, at least in the fine print of the Hippocratic oath. He bent over the waste pail and dry heaved until he feared passing out. His chest ached painfully. She was gone.
Carter has lost count of the number of times she has crossed his mind since then, even years later. The most senseless violence claimed her, body and soul. Sometimes, it’s the big stuff that gets caught in the sticky web of his brain. Lucy's life-plan erased--(did it include him?) Other times, it’s a less obvious kind of hurting--a song that reminds him of her, or a recurring patient at County, who mentions being treated by her years ago. Thinking about this all now, stings him deeper than the winter wind, buffeting him as he kneels in front of her grave.
The flowers that adorn her headstone are covered in a thin, translucent dusting of snow, which shimmers in the light from nearby streetlamps. Red petals peak out, gleaming like fat rubies. Carter stays until he fears frostbite.
He doesn’t pass a single soul on the walk back to County General. His car is still parked on the street, now covered in snow. Silently, he begins cleaning it off with a brush.
The sliding of the entrance doors; the crunching of feet through snow. A moment of silence.
“I remember, Carter. You know you can talk to me about what happened…about her.”
He doesn’t turn around--continues wiping the brush over his windshield in slow, methodical strokes.
“I thought about asking you to come with me.” He hopes it’s not too much honesty, but he’s too emotionally drained at the moment to analyze that any further.
He feels her gloved hand ghost his shoulder for the briefest moment, and then she pulls away.
“I would have," she nearly whispers.
He finally turns to face her, “No, I know. I know.” He can’t control the small smile he gives her.
The ambulance bay lights create a blinding silhouette behind her. It isn’t until Carter steps closer, that he sees snow clinging wetly to the high points of Abby’s face and hair.
“Do you want to talk?” her face pinches in concern. “I’m off. Coffee and pie? Maybe going somewhere that isn’t going to result in my eyelashes freezing off?” She’s rocking on her heels, arms crossed tightly around herself, in an attempt to stave off the cold.
Carter nods slowly, but purposefully.
It’s a slow and careful trek through the snow to Doc Magoo’s. Neon lit signs throw flashes of color against the snowy ground. A bell chimes above them as they walk through the door, and, immediately, Carter feels grounded. Something about this place, coffee and pie. Their ritual calms him in a way he doesn’t entirely understand yet.
As they head to their table, the only waitress working this late hour smiles at them. Within a few minutes, they are both clutching their steaming mugs of coffee like a life line. The waitress delivers Abby a hefty slice of blueberry pie, and then silently disappears behind the counter.
There’s a length of comfortable, learned silence between them. It flows so easily from one second to the next, yet both of them are scared to break it. Carter takes a bite of her pie—“you’re lucky we’re friends”—and sips on his drink for a few minutes.
“I think I was in love with Lucy,” he says quietly, but steadily. “I’ve never told anyone before. I never even got to tell her.”
“I’m so sorry, Carter. It’s so fucking unfair...for both of you.” She brown eyes never leave his and smolder with fiery indignation.
His voice cracks slightly, “Yeah.” The second heaviest breath he’s taken so far today.
The sky creeps to orange by the time he’s finished talking. Slowly, slowly, some of the guilt, regret, and pain, he had buried away with Lucy’s memory is brought to the surface. Abby does very little talking. Instead, she holds space for him. He talks about the past, but also, even more painfully, about the future Lucy never got to create for herself.
When he needs a reprieve from talking, she lets him eat her pie and smoke her cigarettes. Each hour that passes, he feels less heavy, almost physically lighter.
“Thank you.” Carter yawns, grabbing her hand on the table and squeezing it tightly, like a buoy.
(He’s hanging on for dear life, his demons threatening to drown him.)
She traps his hand, tangling their fingers in an impossible knot; they stay anchored together.
(She’s hanging on for dear life, her demons threatening to drown her.)
The title is from Edgar Allen Poe's, "The Pit and the Pendulum."
The opening lyrics are from "Give Up the Ghost" by Radiohead--LISTEN TO IT WHILE YOU READ THIS!
Wanna hear a secret? Half of this was written 20 years ago, when I had to do a character study for a high school writing class. Originally, I had Chuni play the nurse, but when I changed it to Abby, the inspirational flood gates opened, and I just couldn't stop writing.
I really hope you enjoyed this, even though it's super angst-ridden, there's still a bit of hopefulness at the end.
