Mijn zus zei tegen de verpleegster op de spoedeisende hulp dat ik moest wachten alsof ik het veinsde, mijn moeder zei dat we geen geld moesten verspillen aan scans omdat de bruiloft van mijn zus belangrijker was, en terwijl de monitor naast me langzamer ging lopen en steeds minder op leven leek en meer op een aftelling, realiseerde ik me dat het ene ding dat ik in mijn jas verborgen hield, hun perfecte weekend zou veranderen in iets wat niemand van hen ooit zou kunnen verklaren.

 

Then they turned and walked out, just like Chloe did.

Same door.
Same silence.

I stared at the spot where they disappeared, not expecting them to come back. Just registering it.

Brenda moved fast after that.

“Hey,” she said, kneeling in front of me again. “Stay with me, okay?”

I blinked slowly. Everything felt distant now. Muted.

“I’m going to get you fluids,” she continued. “We’ll keep monitoring you.”

Her voice was steady, but I could hear the edge underneath. Frustration. Anger. Not at me. At them.

A gurney finally rolled up beside us, too late to matter the way it should have. They helped me onto it. The movement sent a wave of pain through my abdomen, sharp and deep. I gasped, fingers gripping the sides.

“I know,” Brenda said. “I know. Just breathe.”

They wheeled me into a smaller room. Monitors hooked up. IV started. Cold fluid entering my arm.

It didn’t fix anything.
It just slowed the fall.

The ceiling lights passed above me in a blur. I focused on one of them, then lost it.

The beeping started soon after.

Slow.

Too slow.

“Pressure’s dropping,” someone said.

Brenda’s voice again, sharper now. “We need imaging.”

“She’s AMA,” another voice replied.

“I know what she is,” Brenda snapped. “I also know what she looks like.”

Silence. Then footsteps moving away.

I tried to turn my head. Couldn’t.

My body felt heavy. Too heavy. Like it was sinking into the bed.

“Stay with me, Elena,” Brenda said again, closer now. “Don’t go to sleep.”

I almost laughed. Not because it was funny.

Because it was the same thing we told people in the field.

Don’t go to sleep.
Stay with me.
Hold on.

Funny how it sounds different when you’re the one slipping.

My chest tightened. Breathing got harder. Each inhale felt shallow, incomplete.

The beeping slowed.

“Come on,” Brenda whispered. “Come on.”

I wanted to tell her something. Didn’t know what.

Maybe thank you.
Maybe sorry.

My lips moved. No sound.

The edges of my vision darkened completely this time. Not fading. Closing.

The last thing I heard clearly was the monitor.

Beep.
Slower.
Further apart.

Then everything went quiet.

The silence didn’t last.

Something inside me refused to let it.

Not panic.
Not fear.

Training.

It came back the way it always did—quiet, automatic, cutting through everything else. My body felt like it was shutting down piece by piece. Heavy. Cold. Distant. But somewhere under all that, something stayed sharp.

You’re not done.

That voice didn’t sound emotional. It didn’t beg. It didn’t care how bad it felt. It just stated a fact.

I couldn’t see much anymore. The ceiling lights were gone. The room was just gray, faded around the edges. But I could hear muffled voices. Movement. The monitor still trying to keep time with a heart that was losing the argument.

Beep.
Pause.
Beep.
Longer pause.

I knew what that meant. Hypovolemic shock. Blood loss. System failure.

We’d trained for this. Watched it happen. Measured it.