You've spent your entire life learning to hide disappointment and loss behind a mask of unwavering calm and control, even when your longtime friend died of sickle cell disease.
You've resolved to never be vulnerable to past mistakes again by rebuil...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗢𝗻𝗲: 𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗼𝗿 𝗡𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿
-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-
✎*ೃ˚ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 against Falco Grice's chest, taking over his heart compressions in the last attempt to save this child's life. His tiny sternum hollowed and recoiled beneath your palm at a rate of one hundred times per minute, the best you could do was mimic his natural heartbeat.
Hange Zoe, a respiratory therapist, rushed to force air into his lungs in the hopes that this last tactic would succeed.
"Stay with us, Falco," you murmured, your gaze drawn to the ER resuscitation clock, which was ticking away mercilessly. It had been twenty minutes since the code started. There was no heartbeat. Not even once. You didn't want to give up . . .
You turned to Connie Springer, the nurse, acutely aware of the constant sirens in the distance. "Last EpiPen?" You inquired, your gaze drawn to the little boy who had suddenly turned pale.
"Five minutes ago."
"Give him one more." You came to a halt, your motionless hand leaving the 12-year-old child's chest. You watched until you were satisfied with the therapist's ventilation, then returned your gaze to the cardiac monitor and frowned. Flatline in a-systole. This child's young heart couldn't be flogged with atropine and epinephrine doses. Essentially, it's pointless. He had been without oxygen for far too long before paramedics arrived.
While pictures of a terrified small kid hiding behind a table as his house burnt in a suffocating cloud of smoke flashed before your eyes, you slammed your hand against Falco's sternum once again, gritting your teeth.
"EpiPen's here," Connie said, brushing the strands of hair that had fallen into his face away with his free hand. He raised his gaze to you as he pressed two fingers against the child's arm to find the brachial pulse. "You're getting a good pulse out of the compressions, but . . ."
"He's dead." You retracted your hands from the young boy's chest, a mournful expression on your face.
You took a look at the monitor before nodding to the blonde-haired nurse standing next to the crash cart. "Historia, please run me two leads of rhythm strips." After taking a deep breath, you looked down at the boy, Falco Grice. As a result of the carbon monoxide, his cheeks had turned an unnatural rose color, and his brown curls were splayed against the hospital linen. His green eyes were dulled and only half-opened. His chin was a little small. And his lips were the pinkest of the pink. Such a sweet young boy . . . who passed away far too soon.
