I Shouldn't Love You Anymore | Alex Karev |

Chapter 8

A/N: Some profanity :) Flashbacks will be in italics.

I was sat in the hospital, by myself when my phone rang. I wanted to ignore, but it kept on ringing, and ringing. The annoying sound eventually angered me enough that I had to answer it.I flipped it up, but I didn't check the caller ID.

"What is it?" I asked, a little harshly. I didn't even know Denny Duquette. I had no idea who he was, whether he was a nice guy, or whether he was funny or talented. I wasn't upset by his death. Like I said, I didn't know him. But I knew Izzie. I wasn't the biggest fan of Izzie, hell, I wasn't even a fan of Izzie. I didn't like Izzie. Izzie didn't like me. That was just how it went, but her reaction to Denny's death struck a chord with me. It reminded me of a time, so long ago.

"Get off me!" I screamed, trying to kick my drunk father off of me. He now had his hands wrapped around my neck, strangling me. I choked, tears streaming down my face. He lifted my head off of the floor, and then slammed it back down on the hard tiles. I let out a loud scream in pain, but no one heard. Well, technically, my mother heard, but she didn't react. She continued necking back from her large bottle of tequila. I guess my mother and I eventually had something in common.

My father eventually released his hands from around my neck and yanked me up off the floor. I tried running, but there was no way my legs could move. He grabbed my arm and pulled me back with such force, and kicked me, right in the gut. He punched me clean across the face, knocking me out of consciousness. He kept on hitting me, kicking me, slapping me, and hurting me. I kept screaming, and crying, hoping that someone would hear my yells of pain and would help. Mark didn't live here anymore. He visited often, but only because of me. He was due a visit, I hadn't seen him for weeks. I prayed he would come now, he would often show up without notice.

Thankfully, today was one of those days. He was beating me senseless, when I heard the door opening. I prayed it wouldn't be one of my parents' friends, who would no doubt aid my father in beating me up. But it wasn't. I heard the footsteps walk towards us, where I lay on my floor, my 'dad' kicking me in my ribs.

"What the fuck?" Mark yelled, and he tore our dad away from me and with his fists clenched, repeatedly pounded him, knocking him out. When my brother was done, he rushed over to me, and scooped me up off the cold, hard floor. I was barely conscious, and I could barely hear anything. I could hear Mark yelling at our mother, but I couldn't quite make out what he was saying. When he'd done shouting and screaming, with him still holding an unconscious me, he dashed out of the house, and he went to his small car, and laid me down on the back seat. He got into his seat, and he drove fast, he was furious. I stayed unconscious, and then all of a sudden, I was being picked up again by him, and I clung to him as he ran inside the hospital.

He rushed to the front desk, and he started spouting everything, telling them everything he saw and what he suspected was wrong with me. Mark was fresh out of med school, and just at the beginning of his first intern year.

And then all of a sudden, I was being placed on a gurney, and I was being rushed to an OR. I could just about hear what the surgeons were saying as they rushed me for an immediate surgery.

"Internal injuries."

"Broken ribs."

"Bones broken."

"Bleeding from the chest, we need to get her fixed now."

And then I was in an OR, a mask was being placed over my nose and mouth, and I was breathing in anesthesia.

After I was discharged from the hospital, Mark refused to let me go back to that house. I went home with Mark, and he made sure I was okay.