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It had been two weeks since the bombing incident, and the halls of the hospital still echoed with the phantom blast. Two weeks since Blake had broken her arm. Two weeks since the suffocating loneliness in the aftermath.
The sling had finally come off the day before. But the weight of the trauma lingered, a dull ache that mirrored the throbbing in her mended arm. Leaning against the lockers, she found herself beside George, who was fixated on Meredith. The blonde sat hunched over, a statue of despair etched on her face.
"What's with her?" Blake asked.
"No idea," George shook his head. "How's your arm?"
"Feeling free," she sarcastically smiled, a hint of the old Blake peeking through. As she shifted toward her locker, she missed the lingering look George had sent her way, a look that held a mixture of concern and something more.
The locker room door clanged open. Cristina burst in, a whirlwind of frustration and barely contained anger. She tossed her bag into her locker with more force than necessary.
"You know, he's acting like I committed a crime," Cristina ranted, her voice laced with disbelief. "Like my apartment is full of stolen goods. He's acting like I kept my apartment to hide stolen goods so I can do illegal transplants for money!"
"Are you sure he's just not acting like you lied about moving in?" Meredith offered, raising a brow.
Cristina spun around, her eyes landing on Blake, who just shrugged and shook her head. "Okay, what's wrong with you?" Cristina asked.
Meredith finally lifted her head, her eyes vacant. In a voice devoid of emotion, she spoke, "My mommy's a filthy whore."
As the interns stared at each other, Blake chuckled, "Should I be glad mine's not in my life?" She offered.
