#sh trigger

[pastelcosm]

Kris but I added way to many details onto them

[kixred]

SYNOPSIS. after an argument, he leaves and goes radio silent for days. suddenly he gets your location. no text, no message. he finds you in the bathtub, bleeding.

PAIRINGS. itoshi sae x reader (established relationship)

WARNINGS. arguments, graphic depictions of blood + gore, s#icidal tendencies, s€lf-harm (stabbing), swearing, implied mental health issues, hurt/comfort, physical affection, google translated spanish, sae is bad at relationships— but hopeful ending, slightly ooc

the argument ended the way it always did. not with screaming, not with slammed doors or cruel words like most, but with restraint so tight it feels as if it might snap bone.

voices stayed low. careful. polite, even. the kind of quiet that pretended to be maturity while rotting everything underneath it.

itoshi sae remembers everything. you standing in the doorway of the bedroom, arms wrapped around yourself as if you were trying to hold your ribs together. fingers digging into your sleeves hard enough to wrinkle the fabric. you trying your hardest to ensure your voice didn’t shake when you spoke, even though he could see your chest caving in. why do you keep pulling away when things get hard? why do you shut me out instead of letting me in?

sae doesn’t answer right away.

he looked at you for a long moment— too long. his expression stayed distant, eyes dark and unreadable, like he’d already retreated somewhere you couldn’t follow. then he glanced away, jaw tightening, gaze fixing on the wall as if it were safer than looking at you. i don’t have the capacity for this right now, was what he finally ended up saying.

not you.

this.

that distinction sliced through you deeper than any shouted insult ever could have. he didn’t see you as something worth fighting for in that moment. but just another weight on his chest, another obligation draining him dry.

you opened your mouth to say something. anything. to tell him you weren’t asking for perfection, just presence. that you were tired of being alone both mentally and physically.

yet the words stayed lodged in your throat, heavy and utterly useless.

that’s when he grabbed his jacket and keys without another glance. the door clicked shut behind him with a quiet, a devastating finality that echoed through the apartment like a gunshot.

he didn’t know that you stood there long and alone after his footsteps faded, staring hopelessly at the empty space where he’d been. the air felt colder without him. hollow. your heart ached with everything you hadn’t said, and everything he hadn’t stayed to hear.

three days pass since then.

three days of silence that felt fundamentally wrong, like the world had tilted off its axis and no one bothered to correct it. not even him.

his side of the bed stayed untouched, sheets smooth and cold.

the apartment simply felt like it was holding its breath. barren, empty. quiet in ways it never should.

and sae tells himself you are fine.

he tells himself you need space. that you always bounce back. that you’re stronger than you let on, stronger than him, maybe. he repeats those lies like a mantra, clinging to them during drills, during meetings, during the quiet moments when his thoughts slip their leash.

but you linger anyway.

you creep into his head between reps, your voice echoing faintly in his ears. you haunt the pauses before sleep, the moments when the world goes quiet enough for guilt to surface. his chest feels too tight whenever he imagines coming home to an empty apartment— but then he hates himself even more for not even trying to go home.

he checks his phone more than he means to.

when it buzzes that afternoon, his heart jumps violently before his mind can catch up.

your name lights up the screen.

but there is no message.

just your location.

sae’s brow furrows instantly. that isn’t like you. you don’t send vague texts. you don’t fish for attention or play games. if you want to talk, you will say so. if something is wrong, you spell it out.

a slow, creeping unease settles into his chest.

he checks the time.

five minutes ago. he’s been staring at his phone, as if his god himself will open up the gates to your home.

something cold slides down his spine, sharp and unwelcome. his fingers hover over the screen as he types ‘what’s wrong?’ then deletes it. types again. deletes again.

a pressure builds behind his ribs, urgent, painful, telling him to stop thinking and to start moving.

sae grabs his keys.

——

the drive is a blur of red lights and clenched teeth.

sae barely registers the traffic around him, foot heavy on the gas, hands lock white-knuckle around the steering wheel. his thoughts spiral despite every attempt to stay grounded.

you’re probably just upset.

maybe your phone died.

maybe you fell asleep.

maybe—

every excuse feels thin. flimsy. like paper he can’t hold without cutting himself. almost shielding him against something far worse.

when the gps announces he had arrived, relief should have hit him. it didn’t.

the apartment building looms ahead, familiar and suddenly ominous. pulse thumping in his ears as he parks crookedly and takes the stairs two at a time, breathing shallow, dread growing heavier with every step.

the door is locked.

sae knocks once. hard. “hey,” he calls, already shoving his key into the lock. “i’m home.” he says, as if it fixes everything. the silence inside presses against him, thick and unnatural. the door swings open. the apartment is dim, curtains half-drawn. your shoes are by the door. your bag sitting where you dropped it. everything is normal. normal.

that’s the worst part.

“mi amor?” he calls out again, voice tight now. “you here?”

no answer.

his chest clenches painfully.

he moves through the living room, then the bedroom. the drawer on the bedside table is open, oddly enough. your side of the bed, rumpled. sheets twisted as if you’d tossed and turned before getting up without looking back.

a sick feeling churns his stomach, inside out and starting to crawl out a bile.

then he notices the light under the bathroom door.

his steps slow as he approaches, every instinct screaming at him to hurry and to stop all at once. he knocks, knuckles cracking against the door harder than necessary.

“hey,” he says, quieter now. “open the door.”

nothing.

sae’s heart begins to pound so violently it hurts. he whispers your name, the sound breaking halfway through like a plea he didn’t want to admit to making. sae braces himself, not even sure for what.

he pushes the door open.

the smell hits him first. metallic. sharp. thick enough to taste.

his vision snaps onto red. RED.

the world narrows violently, collapsing in on itself as his brain struggles to process what his eyes are seeing.

you’re in the bathtub. body slumped at an unnatural angle, limbs heavy and wrong, just, limp. clothes soaked through and darkened with something he doesn’t want to name. water overflowed onto the tiles, carrying blood now gruellingly diluted with it— pink and swirling, grotesquely beautiful and just as horrifying. streaks of red, thick and half dried, smeared across porcelain, the floor, the shower curtain, a perfect frame picturing the aftermath of something violent and unspeakable.

he feels his voice get stuck in his throat.

there was so much of it.

too much. too fucking much for your body.

for a suspended, horrifying moment, his mind refuses to accept it. this isn’t real. this can’t be real. this is a nightmare, and he’s about to wake up.

then he sees your face.

too pale. lips tinged faintly blue. eyes closed, lashes resting against skin that looks waxy and unreal.

a sound tears out of him. raw, animal, unrecognizable.

“mierda!” he chokes, stumbling forward, knees slamming into the tile with a crack he didn’t feel. “por favor no… no, no, no— please.”

his hands hovers over you, shaking violently. touching you feels wrong. not touching you feels worse. when he finally does, your skin is cold beneath his fingers, slick with water and blood.

you don’t respond. not even a twitch.

sae’s chest seizes so hard he thinks he might vomit. his vision blurs with tears, hot, burning and uncontrollable as panic rips through his skull.

“hey,” he begged, voice cracking apart. “hey— look at me. por favor. please wake up. please, lo siento..”

he presses his ear to your chest, breath hitching violently as he searches for something— anything.

there.

faint. uneven. proof that your life is hanging on by a thread. a thread he almost severed himself.

a broken sob rips from his throat.

“ay dios mío.” he whispers, forehead collapsing against your shoulder. “you’re still here. you’re still here.”

his hands shake so badly, so uncontrollably, he almost drops his phone as he calls for help, words spilling out incoherent and desperate. he follows instructions blindly, pressing against the wound in your stomach, doing everything he’s told, even as terror claws through his ribs.

as he waits, he talks to you.

“i’m sorry,” he says over and over, voice shredded like a mantra. “i shouldn’t have left. i shouldn’t have let you think you were alone.”

tears drip onto your skin as he clutches your hand, fingers slick and trembling.

“please,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “please don’t leave me. i need you. i love you.”

the sirens take too long.

when help finally arrives, sae barely registers them pulling him back, lifting you from the tub. blood stains his clothes, his hands, his knees. he tries to follow, tries to hold onto you, until they force him to let go.

——

the hospital is bright in a way that feels cruel.

fluorescent lights buzz overhead, washing everything in a sterile white, reflecting off polished floors that smell of disinfectant and metal. voices echo down long corridors, nurses calling codes, carts rattling past, the distant wail of someone else’s grief. every sound makes sae flinch.

time stops behaving normally.

minutes stretch into something unbearable, elastic and sharp. he paces the waiting room until his legs ache, then sits, then stands again, hands trembling as he drags them through his hair. his nails have been bitten raw without him realizing it. his heart feels permanently lodged in his throat, every beat a painful reminder that yours almost stopped.

sae replays everything over and over again. just on loop. nonstop.

the argument.

the way you’d looked at him.

the door clicking shut. him clicking the door shut on you.

when he closes his eyes, he can still see you in the tub. still smell the blood. still feel the cold of your skin beneath his hands.

he bows forward, elbows on his knees, pressing his palms hard against his face as if he can physically hold himself together. he whispers your name under his breath, similar to one making a prayer, but it’s one he isn’t sure he deserves to make.

when the doctor finally approaches, sae can hardly register them at first. it isn’t until they say his name that he snaps his head up, heart slamming violently against his ribs.

“you’re lucky,” the doctor says gently. “they’re stable.”

stable.

the word doesn’t feel real at first. it floats in the air between them, fragile and holy. then it hits him all at once.

sae’s knees nearly give out. he sinks back into the chair, hands flying to his face as a broken sound tore out of him. he cries— chokes, openly, shoulders shaking hard enough to hurt. relief, doubt, and guilt crashing together so violently it steals each and every breath from his lungs.

you’re alive.

you’re still here.

when they finally let him see you, sae moves swift, as if he were afraid any sudden motion might undo it all.

the room is dimmer than the hallway. lights softened, machines humming quietly, breathing for you. you lie in the bed wrapped in white. bandages, blankets, wires tracing over your skin. tubes ran from your arms, monitors blinking steadily beside you— quite literally your lifeline

you look impossibly small. fragile in a way that shatters him.

he pulls a chair close and sits, hesitant at first, before reaching for your hand. his fingers wrap around yours carefully, fear of you breathing. your hand is warmer now. blood pulsing through.

he presses his thumb against your knuckles, grounding himself in the sensation.

“i’m here, mi amor.” he whispers, leaning close. his voice shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “i’m not going anywhere. i promise.”

hours blur into days. 3 days to be exact. like those days where he avoided going home to you.

he barely leaves that chair. nurses scold him gently for not eating; he nods and ignores them. he sleeps in fragments, head tipped back, neck aching, jolting awake every time a monitor beeps a little too fast or a little too slow.

every sound terrifies him. because the sounds are your body actively trying to survive.

sometimes he talks to you even when you don’t move. he tells you about nothing. about the view from the window, about how ugly the chair is, about how you always complain that hospitals smell weird. he apologizes in soft murmurs, forehead resting against your hand, voice barely louder than the machines.

“i should’ve stayed,” he whispers one time, eyes burning. “i should’ve been better.”

then, finally— it happens.

your lashes flutter.

it’s subtle enough that he almost misses it. just a small movement. a shift in your breathing.

sae is on his feet instantly, heart slamming so hard he thinks it might burst.

“hi, love.” he whispers urgently, leaning over you. his voice trembles despite himself. “easy. take it slow. you’re okay. i promise.”

your eyes open slowly, unfocused at first, glassy and confused. you blink, brows knitting together as if the world didn’t make sense yet.

then your gaze finds him.

“sae?” the sound of his name. hoarse, real, but undeniably from you— splits him open.

he laughs and sobs at the same time, hands shaking as he presses his forehead gently to yours, tears dripping down onto the blanket. “you’re awake,” he breathes. “you’re really awake. dios— gracias.”

you swallow, eyes glossy with exhaustion and guilt. “i’m sorry..”

sae’s head snaps up immediately.

“no,” he murmurs, voice fierce despite the tears streaking his face. he cups your cheeks carefully, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes. “no. don’t ever apologize for staying. for fighting. for breathing.”

his eyes are red and raw, filled with love and fear and a softness he’s never allowed anyone to see but you.

“i thought i lost you,” he admits. voice still hoarse but every bit true “i thought i’d never hear your voice again. i thought..”

tears slip down your temples as your chest tightens painfully.

he leans in, resting his forehead against yours, breath shaking. “we fight. we mess up. i shut down when i shouldn’t. but you don’t get to disappear on me.”

his voice cracked completely. “te amo,” he whispers. “i’ll protect you, even yourself, if i have to. especially then. i’m sorry. for not being there. so please, don’t do that again.”

you nod weakly, tears spilling freely as he kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips. soft, reverent kisses full of promise instead of desperation.

he gathers you into his arms as much as the wires allow, holding you carefully, protectively. you’re something priceless he’d almost lost forever. “i’m here,” he murmurs into your hair. “i’m not leaving. we’ll fix this. together.”

A/N. i’ve read so many scenarios where people attempt by slitting their wrists in the bathtub. i’ve always found that unrealistic with how deep the cuts they must be to be able to pass away from blood loss. stabbing is a realistic approach logic wise, especially near vitals.

so graphic tmi, butttttt has anyone watched those slasher movies and laughed at how unrealistic the blood is when someone gets stabbed? like a fountain just gushing out? so i did, but turns out it’s actually accurate. blood shot out like a fountain about 5 inches into the air when i stabbed myself and continued for about 15 or so seconds, slowly down with less intensity as seconds passed like one too. watching the blood felt hypnotic. it was actually horrifying i did a double-take because it just looked so unrealistic even as if was happening right in my face.

[sweets-selfships]

something about your f/o cleaning you up after you relapsed... there's no judgement in their eyes, just a gentle look as they place some bandages over the wounds. They pull you close once they're done, rocking you back and forth as they whisper comforting words to you, reminding you that they love you, flaws and all, and that they'll fix you up whenever you need them too. they make your favorite meal that night, and they give you an extra little kiss before bed. even then, they dont let you go, falling asleep with your face in their mind...

[valtheduckxd]

TW: suggestive - AU - SH related

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This isn't going to work

[th3res-myc3lium-0n-my-skin]

who wants to be the ^ of my ^

[shira-ceres]

matryoshka drdttober day 1 : Hollow

[bottmless-pitt]

I'll be right there. 1/2

CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of suicide, talks of self-harm, Reader attempted suicide. Jack Abbot x F!reader, Neighbor!Reader, Medical inaccuracies, blood, car trauma, mentions of Abbot's time in the military, brief descriptions of bruising, blood, and stitches. Angst with an ambiguously happy ending. Summary: Jack Abbot's new neighbor ends up in his Trauma rooms for all the wrong reasons. Can he break through to her before it's too late? Author's Note: Some real self-indulgent angst. I highkey love a reader insert with a tragic backstory to lean into. This is part 1, I'll be posting part 2 later this week! Part 2 will definitely be more fluff and smut than this, so no hard feelings if you'd like to read it later. Let me know your thoughts. All the kindness from the other piece is keeping me upright. Enjoy the self-indulgent angst!!!

The lights were too bright. It was stale in the cavernous halls of the PMTC’s emergency department. The smell of blood and cleaning fluid never fully left your nose, and the sounds of someone’s lowest moments seemed to echo out eternally.

Jack loved the chaos that working in the Pitt brings him, it’s grounding. After spending better part of a decade on the front lines, returning to civilian life was more than monotonous, it was dehumanizing. Jack had understood himself well in the thick of the battlefield, he worked quickly without hesitation or fear. He had a carefully built self-image that hinged on his ability to be useful to someone in crisis.

After losing a portion of his leg, being honorably discharged, and sent back to retire he had lost the only structure he’d ever known. He couldn’t figure out how to be useful in the stillness, where no one was crying out for loved ones or God-like figures to save them. He was aimless without the chaos.

So, he loved The Pitt, and its never-ending line of incoming traumas. He appreciated his role in the machine that cogged overhead, happy to do his part and keep moving. Some days were harder than others, some cases left him feeling threadbare and worn thin, but the silence that greeted him when he walked home left him more haunted than anything he’d seen at work in the past few years.

So, all in all, Jack didn’t complain about the work the way the rest of his team did. He never minded the patients that would kick and scream at him, nor did he care much when there were far too many people packed into the waiting room. Yes, in a perfect world none of this would happen, but he enjoyed that it kept him moving forward. He needed the momentum desperately.

On an off night, however, he can’t seem to get the itch scratched. They had breezed through most of the day-shift’s leftover cases, discharged who they could, and moved onto the next. All of his cases were being monitored, the chairs had slowed down significantly, and it was approaching the Night-shift lull.

He was starting to get antsy, and after the third lap checking in on his team, he collapsed into a chair next to his Charge Nurse, Bridgit.

“Don’t get too comfortable soldier.” She looked down at him from the top rim of her reading glasses. Jack only smirked, she quirked an unimpressed eyebrow back at him.

“Oh, you know me,” He leaned back into the chair, putting the lumbar support to the test. “I’m not comfortable unless I’m elbow deep in traumas.” He passively spun his chair side to side, looking less like the Emergency Department Attending and more like a teenage boy stuck at the family barbeque.

“More like elbow deep in trauma, period.” She shoots back, tapping him with her clipboard the way a teacher would readjust a student. That was Bridgit, she was the one really running this place, and Jack had no issues submitting to her power when she pushed him around a little. She opened her mouth to say something, when the phone behind her lit up. It only took a few hushed words before turning back to him, “Look alive kid, we have incoming, ETA 3 minutes.”

Jack springs up, walking away as she finishes gathering the troops. He’s outside in a flash, prepped and sterile before the sirens could even be heard in the distance. Ellis not more than three steps behind him, already gloving up ready to take on whatever she needs. Jack tilted his head back and gave a calm thumbs up as they see the flashing lights come up and over the horizon.

When the ambulance pulls up and the gurney is wheeled out, he sees a young woman, bloodied, bruised, but semi-conscious. He begins his medical assessment and taking the reins from the EMTs. He doesn’t get a glimpse of her face before he begins spouting orders.

“Let’s get her set up in Trauma 1, I don’t like blood loss here, prep to intubate but let’s see if we can’t assess the head trauma before we sedate her.” He led as Ellis trailed along the other side, following his orders exactly. “Hi there, I’m Doctor Jack Abbot, I’m a doctor at the Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center, we’re going to take good care of you.” He heard a small groan as the patient slowly turned their head towards him.

He saw you then, he’s shocked he hadn’t recognized you sooner, on the gurney laid out before him. His sweet, albeit quiet, neighbor who had never given him any trouble. His breath caught in his throat as your eyes seemed to recognize him, before rolling back in your skull and everything went dark.

--

Pittsburg was a bitch in February. The weather was unrelenting, and frost bitten. No one wanted to be outside for more than five minutes, let alone lug box after box up the small stairwell into the dusty old apartment upstairs.

So, when Jack, who snagged a rare weekend off, noticed his new upstairs neighbor was moving in he had no excuse not to help. That’s just the kind of guy Jack was, he wasn’t going to let a new neighbor move in without at least offering. He was thankful you had sense enough to hire movers, rather than try and do it yourself the way the last tenants had. (He had the pleasure of trying to sleep through three college aged guys try to carry a sectional up the stairs two Septembers ago.)

He didn’t fancy himself too much help, but the next trip he saw you coming down he poked his head out.

“Oh!” you squeaked, nervous to catch one of your new neighbors off guard, “I’m so sorry I didn’t see you come out.” You clarified.

“it’s no worries.” Jack stepped out and extended a hand, “I’m Jack, I’m in 1B.” He pointed his thumb back at the door that was clearly labeled behind him. You only smiled shyly and let out a polite laugh offering your name in return.

“I’m 2B, so I guess I’m right above you.”  You spoke softly. “Is the moving too much noise? I’m so sorry, it was the only time slot the movers had left.”

Jack shrugged, he hadn’t really thought about it, with his sleep schedule being as backwards as it was. This was early for him if he was being honest.

“Not for me, no. I’m night shift at the hospital down the road.” He noticed your fidgeting, trying to keep an eye on the movers without being too rude. You were young, far too young for him, but it didn’t stop him from admiring your face. He especially noticed the crease that developed between your eyebrows when you saw the movers drop a box boldly labeled fragile.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to keep you, just wanted to see if you needed any help.” He conceded. Your head shot back to look at him, wide eyed, and a flush creeped up your spine.

“No, I’m sorry, I’m so distracted. The move’s been pretty chaotic.” Your shoulder slump, letting the weight of the moment hang heavy before taking a deep breath and regaining composure. You shoot him a smile, but he notices how it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “But I think we’re ok! And I don’t want to steal your night away.” She brushes off the comment.

He doesn’t reasonably believe you, but hey, moving can be tough and he doesn’t want to keep you longer than necessary.  So, he throws a friendly smile, catching your eyes with an open intensity. “No problem, but if you ever need anything I’m down here.” He watches his words land, and you pause a moment before nodding again.

“Thanks Jack, and uh- “you peak back through the open front door to watch the movers for a moment, “same here. If you ever need anything at all.”

And that was the first and last time he’d spoken to you, until now. Until you were wheeled into his trauma room, covered in blood, multiple broken ribs, and an unidentified head trauma.

Jack was a talented doctor, a master at compartmentalizing in high stress environments, and acting fast in situations going south. He was a steady hand in an earthquake, proving his actions time and time again, both in the field and out of it. He was a good doctor, but seeing you laid up before him had his throat dry in an instant.

He couldn’t reconcile the shy neighbor he met only a few months ago is the same girl bleeding out on his table, and the last thing she heard was him promising to take good care of him.

For a moment, half a moment maybe, as your eyes slide shut, he lets the chaos around him rumble away, it couldn’t touch his shock. He let the nurses bark SATs and Ellis call out questions.

For a brief moment he allowed himself to be Jack Abbot, 1B, who just wanted to make sure his new neighbor was safe. Jack Abbot, 1B, who would always take her mail dropped into his box by accident up to her door and ring the bell. Jack Abbot who wanted to get a second chance at a first meeting, because he’s sure that if he could just be slightly more charming, he’d have gotten a chance to carry a box up the stairs and into your new home. That he would have a chance to leave you better than he found it. The Jack Abbot that was selfish, wanting a woman who was younger than him, who’d only ever spoken to him the once, but had never left his mind.

It wasn’t until one of the nurses brushed past him with a bag of O-Neg that he snapped out of it.

“Fuck, we need to get her intubated-“He announced, reaching for the tube, and before he can allow himself to think any further about what could happen to you, his mind shuts and he becomes Dr. Abbot again.

The first thing you feel when you come to, is a dull ache in your left side. Everything hurts, actually, but your left side outranks the rest by far. Your eyes don’t open right away, too heavy to try lifting them. You let the sounds of the monitor to your right keep time, beep… beep… beep. It would be comforting if the sheets didn’t itch, and your feet weren’t so cold, or if there wasn’t the sounds of people dying outside the doorway to your room.

When you opened your eyes, you immediately regretted it, your head blooming in fresh pain from the intensity of the lights. Immediately shutting them closed and letting out a groan. The lights shining overhead had you spinning, sending waves of pain down your body. It was never supposed to end here.

If you told yourself a year ago you ended up in the emergency room tonight, she’d probably laugh in your face.

It all started with your fiancé, or ex-fiancé, who couldn’t seem to decide if they loved you or not. Or at least that’s what they told you last December while you were picking out wedding cake flavors. It wasn’t that they didn’t love you, per-se, the reality is they didn’t love you enough to stop fucking their coworker. So, wedding is called off, which you lament but move on.

It's not until he kicks you out come January, with nothing but enough cash to stay at a shitty motel for a few weeks that things start to weigh you down. The small attic apartment in a townhouse in the heart of Pittsburg is a refuge. It takes most of your paycheck every month, and you have barely enough furniture to call it livable. It’s completely yours, though, and that’s not something you’ve ever had.

So, you keep going through the motions. Then you get fired from your job. Budget cuts, layoffs, restructuring is uttered. You suspect it has more to do with the Senior Manager that’s sporting the engagement ring that was yours just a few months prior. That’s when the spiral really begins.

You reach out to whatever family you have left and are met with cold indifference. They’re not unsupportive, but you aren’t the only one with problems. Any attempts to reach out to old friends lost to time are met with similar tepid support.

The dismissal is enough to keep you firmly bottled up for years.

You’re not really sure what the final straw was but looking up at the steep steps of your apartment building, you can’t bring yourself up the steps. Not when you know the only thing waiting for you is a stuffy apartment devoid of all life. You contemplate, for a moment, knocking on the downstairs neighbor’s door, but decide against it. You’re not sure what kind of doctor he is, but he always looks so tired when you catch him coming up the sidewalk in the mornings.

But after a long shift at your new dead-end job, you just decide it’s not worth it anymore. You couldn’t spend another night thanking your lucky stars to be living a life you despise. For the first time in a long time, you feel nothing at all. No sadness, no pain, just intense clarity. You turn on your heel, walk out into the cold, and hardly flinch when you take a step out into the busy street. The last thing you remember is the bright light of the oncoming traffic consume you.

You were never meant to end up here. You never meant for any of this. You open your eyes again and reach out for the call button.

You were by no means a medical expert, but you thought the button was more for Nurses rather than doctors. You hadn’t expected for Jack to poke his head into your room, but of course he had. Of course, Jack was an ER doctor, and of course he was in your room. Lest we forget what sick karmic luck exists.

“Hey there sleepy head.” He was calm, but you could feel his eyes racking down you with medically trained precision. How mortifying for your neighbor to be your doctor after a night like this. You want to curl up and hide, he reaches out for your hand.

“How are you feeling?” he tilts his head down at you.

“Hurts.” You manage to choke out, throat sore and rough, like sandpaper. He presses his lips in a tight line and nods his head gently.

“Understandable, you were in a car accident.” He reached over, fiddling with the equipment. “I’m adjusting your meds. You should feel less pain here in a minute.” You resist the urge to let out a chuckle, the physical pain was hardly the main concern, and you had a feeling by the unwavering gaze jack was giving you- he already knew that.

“Thank you.”

“No need to thank me.” He takes a seat on your bedside. “I spoke with some of the officers on the scene,” He fiddled with the thin paper sheet below you. “And they’re pretty concerned about you, kid.” He dropped his hand on top of yours, and you felt your whole body react.

His eyes boring holes into your skull as you try to squirm out from under his gaze. The pain meds slowly trickling in your system do little to help as you try to adjust. You cry out in pain when your skin, bruised and swollen, is stretched to its limit along your side.

“Easy there, you’ve got stitches.”  Jack, Dr. Abbot, has his arms around you in an instant. He helps you turn until you’re lying on your side, and you allow yourself the comfort of curling up in protest.

“That better?” He asks, and you only nod. “Good.”

Jack makes no motion to move, he just sits with you, watches you like you’ll disappear any second. He opened his mouth a few times but ultimately spent the next few moments watching you.

It was a shameful feeling, to know your low got that low and now you’re sitting with your neighbor who probably thinks you’re totally insane for walking into oncoming traffic. He was some hotshot ER doctor. You were just some random person who’d come swan diving into his life headfirst and knocked themselves out on the bottom of the pool.

You couldn’t bear the agony of waking up without meaning again, and you don’t understand why this man, who owed you nothing, was sitting here with you. Your body begged you to say something, do something, anything, but your mind was numb.

You burrowed deeper into your own hands, and it wasn’t until you felt Dr. Abbot’s own hands petting your hair, that you realized you were crying. You felt your whole body sink into the thin mattress below you, like a faulty tire finally siphoning the last bit of air. Your body shook and your muscles ache around the constricted breaths.

“I know, let it out.” He encouraged, scooting closer to you.

“I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore.” You finally admit. In a strange way it feels better saying it to someone other than your own reflection. You can’t look at him, you don’t want to see the look in his eyes when he thinks it. You’re completely insane.

You don’t know how long he sits with you, letting your body heave its sobs. He stays, ignoring other patients, to sit with you. One hand on your head the other fiddles with the chain around his neck.

“I lost a leg, in Afghanistan in 2009,” His voice is calm, almost matter of fact, but waivers off like he’s reliving it. “And I thought that would be the hardest thing I ever had to experience.” He moved his hands away from you.

“I moved back home, thought about retiring, thought about working at a college as a professor. I liked teaching enough. I thought, the worst is behind me, just gotta move on.” He clears his throat, and you peak through to look up at him, lost in his own story. “I had a wife, I was going to settle down and figure out how to be there for her, but it wasn’t that simple. I had lost myself completely over there.

“I was a soldier my whole life, I trained to be a soldier first, medic second. I don’t think I remembered what civilian life really was. We used to sit around at base camp, talking about what we’d do when we got home, but once I was there it meant nothing to me anymore.” You took a shuddering breath, and he looked down at you, “I came back, and I had some really dark nights. I couldn’t move, I had no purpose, I was a soldier first, medic second, person third. I couldn’t be a soldier, I wasn’t cleared to be a medic, and I had no idea how to be a person anymore.

“There more than a few nights where I begged for everything to stop. I prayed for there to be an end to that feeling. So, I get it. Hey, I really do, but this is not the way out you think it is kid.” He put his hand on yours, and you felt his fingers curl around yours tightly, like he was holding onto something that was just on the brink of slipping him by.

“I don’t have anything,” You admit to yourself, “It’s not just things, I don’t have a life, I don’t have anything.”

He lets out a shaky breath, “You have me.” He tilts his head again trying to catch your reaction. Your breath gets caught in your throat, and distantly you hear the heartrate monitor increase. He only chuckles and reaches past you to turn the monitor off. “I mean it, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t know me at all.” You sound like a petulant child, but he lets you get away with it.

“But I want to.”

And when Jack puts it that way it’s so simple. He makes life sound easy to rebuild, and you want to yell and scream that it isn’t that simple. You want to shake him until he understands the wreckage he’s standing on top of isn’t just a broken-down building, it’s a radioactive wasteland.

“Here’s what I want to do, and you tell me if this is alright.” He stands, crossing his arms, then looking down at you. “I’m going to have a doctor come talk to you, and he’s going to set you up with a therapy program that’ll be a good fit for you. Might even get you on some medicine if they feel like it’s the right fit. I’m also going to give you my phone number, and I’m going to check on you before I leave for work and when I get home for a few weeks. I’m going to give you the number for my charge nurse as well, in case you can’t reach me.” He runs a hand down his face, and you can see the exhaustion pulling him down. You don’t offer an argument.

“I know it’s scary.” He admits to you, “To choose to get better, but you can, and I’ll be right here, alright?” He nods, and you nod with him.

“Okay,” you concede, exhausted form your own emotions.

“It’s rude,” He pats your shoulder, “to end up in a trauma on your friend’s shift you know.”

“Are we friends, Dr. Abbot?” You question.

“We are now.”

[jiraipupsstuff]

looked down at my sleeve in class today only to see i was bleeding through my jacket fml i gotta get better at doing aftercare 💔💔