he said he said where we're going i'm dead
But it still startles her; she spins around and her head swims, she spins and can't stop, tilting on her axis like the sun dying, crashing, whirling out of control --
- he left cause'a you -
"Please," Eden opens her mouth and Sarah's quavery stupid little voice comes out, hands flashing bloody over the walls, layered over the prints already there, ( Read more... )
The monitor flares to life before he can strike it with something, as he'd have invariably done.
"Mr. Suresh?"
The coroner's assistant is short and fat, like all Americans. Mohinder tells himself these things, anyway, lip curling with contempt. He's absolutely determined to hate everything about this country, because it's what Chandra abandoned him for, and if he hadn't, he'd still be alive right now, wouldn't he?
"Dr. Suresh, actually," he corrects, with a hint of impatience that's only going to keep growing the longer he's kept here. He shouldn't have come. His father, he thinks bitterly, wouldn't have even wanted Mohinder following him to New York, not even to collect his body. But there's nobody else to do it. The duty falls on his only child.
I could be researching right now, he thinks. I could be discovering something. I could be proving him wrong, proving myself a real scientist, and instead I just went and jumped on a plane in a moment of grief without even thinking. Some heart of stone.
"Right," the man mumbles, unimpressed, and pulls the sheet unceremoniously from the corpse on the table. The dead man is in his late forties, mangled in a manner characteristic of a rather brutal car accident, and not even Indian. Mohinder narrows his eyes.
"How could that possibly be my father?" His tone positively oozes contempt. What the hell is this Big Mac-bloated troglodyte trying to pull? Do all foreigners look the same to him, is that it?
"We've got five John Does here that fit your father's age bracket." The man wipes sweat from his brow with a labcoated sleeve, sounding halfway contrite. "'S standard procedure to show you them all."
"Wonderful," Mohinder scoffs, staring up at the ceiling. He hasn't got all fucking day.
The second corpse could possibly look like Chandra, if Mohinder were to squint. He doesn't, though, just rolls his eyes disgustedly.
"This isn't him. Do we have to do them all one at a time?" As if he's got anywhere to be but here, as if claiming his father's body weren't the entire reason he'd flown out here in the first place--he just wants to get the hell back to his life. Chandra never let having a son affect his life much. Why should Mohinder do him any more courtesy? And he wants to seem like he has a life outside of this, even if he doesn't really. He wants the pathetic little morgue attendant to think of him as something more than just the insignificant son of a mangled John Doe, doesn't know the first thing about this country, can't even talk decent English--Mohinder's already been snickered-at in the Starbucks down the street because of his accent; the memory makes him seethe. Fuck you all--he's a doctor, all right? And this fat little fuck in front of him needs to know that. He needs to know that Mohinder, unlike him, has somewhere to be right now that isn't this dank, depressing morgue.
"Didn't he have identification on him?" he sneers, as if he doesn't expect anyone at the morgue to have even thought of that--never mind that he hadn't thought of it himself until just now. "He was found in his cab. What happened to his license? Why is he a John Doe in your books?"
The man stares blankly at him for a moment. Mohinder folds his arms. God. What a mouth-breathing waste of space.
"He could've been misfiled," the attendant concedes, pulling the sheet from the third body. Mohinder spares it barely a glance before dismissing it with an audible snort.
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