Narrative: Stripes
He sits in front of his desk in the medical dorm, turning a small flat box over and over in his hands. It hasn't been opened since the ceremony; it doesn't need to be. He knows what's in there -- his stripes. The symbol of his promotion, still a third-year cadet, to the rank of Lieutenant Commander. Not unheard of, but infrequent enough that there was an impromptu celebration thrown in the common room by several of his fellow students and residents.
A celebration that he slipped away from almost immediately. The ceremony had been bad enough -- a brief and simple affair, arranged for the presentation of three promotions and the commemoration of eleven lives ended too soon. McCoy had nearly sleep-walked through it, the faces a blur and the somewhat subdued applause drowned by the roar inside his own head. He hasn't slept more than a couple hours at a time in days, although he has no idea how many. The computer tells him the date, but it means nothing, because he has no recollection of the past days as anything more than one long blur of white walls and red blood and the beepwhir of machines. Of hours-long surgeries, one after another, double and triple shifts interrupted only by snatches of sleep on empty cots. Of coffee and stimulants and meals eaten on the run.
There'd been fourteen passengers and crew aboard the shuttle, fifty-three more in the building it tore through. Sixty-seven involved in the accident, fifty-six survivors, five dead at the scene, six more who entered the hospital facility but never left it. Six innocent lives ended because the doctors weren't fast enough, or skilled enough to save them.
One lost under his own hands, his own knife. Because he didn't know enough, wasn't prepared enough, hadn't worked hard enough.
The chief of surgery had assured him it wasn't his fault, there was no one available with any expertise in the intricacies of Acamarian anatomy, no one would have been able to do any better. It was unfortunate, but it happens, such is life. Bones had walked out the door before he punched the man in the mouth just to stop the platitudes. He knows they aren't miracle-workers, they can't bring back the dead. But damn it all, they're supposed to be able to heal the living.
He's already rearranged his course-load, added extra classes on xenobiology. Has written letters of condolence to six families, five already sent, the sixth staring up at him from his PADD. He hasn't sent it because how do you tell a parent you're sorry for being the reason their son is never coming home?
I wish to extend my sympathies over the loss of your son, who would still be alive if he'd had the luck of a better surgeon. I'm sorry I couldn't stop the bleeding fast enough, I'm sorry I didn't have the skill to repair his lungs and his kidneys, I'm sorry his heart stopped beating and I didn't know how to get it to start again.
He wants to throw the box into the trash. How do you reward someone for failing? Fifty-six means nothing, it's the six who could have made it but didn't, who matter.
He memorized the names after. He has no idea what day of the week it is, what classes he's supposed to attend tomorrow, but the names are burned into his mind forever, six more to add the list of lives he should have saved but didn't.
Richard Leopoldo
Martha Di Zhi
Thoris
Mbali Ewen
Konrad Yocheved
Charoul Pel
David McCoy
A celebration that he slipped away from almost immediately. The ceremony had been bad enough -- a brief and simple affair, arranged for the presentation of three promotions and the commemoration of eleven lives ended too soon. McCoy had nearly sleep-walked through it, the faces a blur and the somewhat subdued applause drowned by the roar inside his own head. He hasn't slept more than a couple hours at a time in days, although he has no idea how many. The computer tells him the date, but it means nothing, because he has no recollection of the past days as anything more than one long blur of white walls and red blood and the beepwhir of machines. Of hours-long surgeries, one after another, double and triple shifts interrupted only by snatches of sleep on empty cots. Of coffee and stimulants and meals eaten on the run.
There'd been fourteen passengers and crew aboard the shuttle, fifty-three more in the building it tore through. Sixty-seven involved in the accident, fifty-six survivors, five dead at the scene, six more who entered the hospital facility but never left it. Six innocent lives ended because the doctors weren't fast enough, or skilled enough to save them.
One lost under his own hands, his own knife. Because he didn't know enough, wasn't prepared enough, hadn't worked hard enough.
The chief of surgery had assured him it wasn't his fault, there was no one available with any expertise in the intricacies of Acamarian anatomy, no one would have been able to do any better. It was unfortunate, but it happens, such is life. Bones had walked out the door before he punched the man in the mouth just to stop the platitudes. He knows they aren't miracle-workers, they can't bring back the dead. But damn it all, they're supposed to be able to heal the living.
He's already rearranged his course-load, added extra classes on xenobiology. Has written letters of condolence to six families, five already sent, the sixth staring up at him from his PADD. He hasn't sent it because how do you tell a parent you're sorry for being the reason their son is never coming home?
I wish to extend my sympathies over the loss of your son, who would still be alive if he'd had the luck of a better surgeon. I'm sorry I couldn't stop the bleeding fast enough, I'm sorry I didn't have the skill to repair his lungs and his kidneys, I'm sorry his heart stopped beating and I didn't know how to get it to start again.
He wants to throw the box into the trash. How do you reward someone for failing? Fifty-six means nothing, it's the six who could have made it but didn't, who matter.
He memorized the names after. He has no idea what day of the week it is, what classes he's supposed to attend tomorrow, but the names are burned into his mind forever, six more to add the list of lives he should have saved but didn't.
Richard Leopoldo
Martha Di Zhi
Thoris
Mbali Ewen
Konrad Yocheved
Charoul Pel
David McCoy