Sebastian's hand closes around my wrist, firm but gentle. "Mia. Stop."
I jerk my arm away from, my hands immediately finding their position over Cheryl's sternum again. "No," I spit, the word burning my throat like acid. "She still has a chance." My fingers lace together, heel of my palm pressing down, but Sebastian's hand returns, more insistent this time. I twist away, using my shoulder to block him. "Get off me! She needs help!"
Suddenly his strong arms wrap around my waist and he physically removes me from Cheryl.
"Let me go!" I writhe in his grip, twisting and thrashing like a wild animal. My elbow connects with something solid—his ribs maybe—and I hear his grunt of pain, but his arms don't loosen. "Put me down! She needs CPR! Why aren't you helping her?"
"Mia, stop." His voice is right against my ear. "Baby, please, you have to stop."
I slam my heel down, aiming for his instep, but hit only the floor as he shifts his weight. "No. Every minute without compressions decreases her chances by ten percent." I claw at his forearms, nails digging into flesh hard enough to leave half-moons. "Let me go."
Sebastian spins me around, hands gripping my upper arms like vises, forcing me to face him. His face swims before my tear-blurred vision—jaw tight, eyes intense. "Mia, listen to me. She has a DNR."
The words don't register at first. I'm still too busy struggling to get back to Cheryl. "She needs help. Why won't you help her?"
"Do Not Resuscitate," Sebastian enunciates each word slowly, carefully while his grip on my arms never waver. "She signed it last week. It's in her chart. She didn't want this."
The room tilts sideways. My knees go weak, and suddenly Sebastian's grip is the only thing keeping me upright. "No," I whisper, the fight draining out of me like someone pulled a plug. "She wouldn't. She would have told me."
Sebastian's expression softens, and that's somehow worse than his clinical detachment. "She knew it was coming, Mia. She made her choice."
"No." The denial explodes from me with renewed force. My hands curl into fists, and before I can think, I' pound them against Sebastian's chest. "No, no, no. She can't be gone. She can't." Each word punctuated by another blow, my fistsconnecting with the solid wall of his torso. "Why didn't I know? Why didn't she tell me?"
Sebastian takes each hit, absorbing my fury and grief without complaint. Around us, the room has gone deathly quiet, the other medical staff frozen in place, witnesses to my complete unraveling.
My vision blurs completely, hot tears streaming down my face. The rage that's been fueling me suddenly evaporates, leaving nothing but a hollow ache that threatens to collapse my chest from the inside out.
"I was supposed to save her," I whisper, voice breaking on each word. "I promised."
Sebastian's arms come around me, one hand cradling the back of my head as I slump against him. "I know, baby," he murmurs into my hair. "I know you did."
For a moment—just one fragile, suspended moment—I let myself lean into him, let the solid warmth of his body anchor me in a world that's suddenly spinning off its axis. His heart beats steady beneath my cheek, a cruel reminder of Cheryl's silence.
I pull away abruptly and as I back away to the door my gaze lands on Cheryl's still form. The monitors remain dark and silent, an absence more deafening than any alarm could be. The room blurs around the edges, faces smearing into indistinct shapes and more tears fill my eyes.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so fucking sorry."
Then I turn and flee, unable to stand in that room one second longer, to stand the weight of another death, of another failure.
Barreling down the hallway, I’m blind with tears and rage. My feet move on autopilot. My lungs burn like I've been running for miles, each breath a ragged gasp that does nothing to fill the emptiness spreading through my chest.
I can't go to the lounge, can't face colleagues with their sympathetic glances and careful distance. Can't stand in the elevator with strangers while I'm falling apart at the seams.
That’s when I see the empty consultation room. Wrenching the handle down, I practically fall into the room before slamming the door shut behind me. My back presses against the cool wood as I slide to the floor.
"Fuck," I whisper, the word barely audible even in the silent room. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
I press my fists against my eyes, hard enough to see stars, as if physical pain might somehow eclipse the emotional agony tearing through me. My breath comes in ragged gasps that border on hyperventilation, chest heaving with the effort of containing sobs that want to rip free.
Cheryl is gone. Just like my father. Gone while I stood by, useless and unprepared.
The parallels crash over me like a tidal wave—the same sterile room, the same machines, the same crushing helplessness as I watched life slip away. Different people, same ending. Same failure.
"Not again," I choke out, pressing my palms flat against the cold tile floor as memories swallow me whole. "I failed again."
My father's face floats before me—pale and drawn in those final days, eyes sunken, skin taking on that translucent quality that whispers of approaching death. I remember holding his hand, promising I'd find an answer, begging him to just hold on a little longer while I researched one more treatment option, consulted one more specialist. Then the monitor's wail. The flurry of activity. The moment when time stretched and warped, and I knew—knew with bone-deep certainty—that he was gone.
Just like Cheryl.
