She nods as she gets to her feet. “Goddamn it.”
“What?”
“It’s a rape victim and she’s fucking eleven.”
Nicole is off before I can even respond. After returning our trays and dishes, I find myself wandering up to the ER. Part of me is telling me not to go, but it’s almost like I’m compelled to.
As usual, the waiting room is full of people, but there’s a trail of blood from the doors down the hall and a worker heading my way with a hazmat suit on. In the chaos, I’m able to stroll down the hall, following the blood and the commotion to the trauma room.
A frail little body lies on the table while doctors and nurses work on stopping her bleeding and easing her pain. My heart hurts, as it always did when these especially horrific cases came in. I was never able to turn it off like some of my colleagues could, and I think that’s what led to me leaving the profession.
Nearby a man and a woman hold each other, while the woman sobs and the man looks like he’s ready to tear down walls with his bare hands. I step to the side as two police officers approach the couple, and the man’s voice is so loud and strained with anger, my stomach twists.
“Did you find him?” the woman asks. “Did you find John?”
One of the police officers nods. “He’s in custody and on his way here.”
“Here?” the man asks. “What for?”
“He shot himself when we pulled up to the house,” the officer explains. “But he’s likely to survive.”
“Fucking coward couldn’t even take his own life,” the man spits. I’m assuming these are the girl’s parents. “Keep him away from me or I’m going to jail today.”
The ER doors slide open and the paramedics enter with a man strapped to a gurney, moaning as he clutches a blood-soaked spot on his belly. The father sprints down the hall, theofficers and some staff rushing to follow, and I watch the father grab the other man by the collar, screaming, “You better fucking hope you die, because if I get my hands on you, you’ll goddamn wish you did!”
The injured man responds only by trying to cover his face while the police officers pull the father away and the mother sobs nearby. I can’t help myself, and I walk over to comfort her.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
She looks at me with tear-filled eyes. “Who are you?”
“I was a doctor here.”
Surprisingly, she slumps, and I have to reach out and grab her arm to stabilize her.
“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
She cries into my shoulder while the police calm her husband and the injured man is wheeled off.
“We trusted him. We invited him into our home for dinner. His whole family. He was teaching her guitar.”
I rub her back, unsure what to say.
“He has two daughters,” the mother continues. “God knows what he’s done to them.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“She was such a happy girl. Look what he did to her.”
The husband walks over to us, giving me a quizzical look.
“Dr. Benedetti, sir.”
He nods, taking my spot in comforting his wife. “I’m sorry, Lauren. I couldn’t help it.”
She sobs into her husband’s chest, and I walk away to give them their space. The police officers linger by the second trauma room where the abuser is being treated, and I overhear them.
“This guy teaches guitar and piano to kids,” one officer says, the contempt clear in his voice. “Too bad he’s a crappy shot. He’s better off dead than in prison.”
