The Price of Blood and the Cost of Standing Alone Against Family
The hallways of County General were bustling with the morning rush.
Nurses were wheeling carts past, and the smell of floor wax and antiseptic filled the air.
I walked down to the emergency department, hoping to find Mara.
I found her at the central nursing station, reviewing a chart on a tablet.
She looked up as I approached, her dark eyes immediately scanning my face.
“You look like you haven’t slept in a week,” Mara said, keeping her voice low.
“I haven’t,” I said.
She pulled me aside, into an empty trauma bay.
“The rumor mill is already spinning, Elizabeth,” Mara said, her expression serious.
“What have you heard?” I asked.
“Someone is spreading a story about an altercation at your apartment last night,” she said. “They are saying the police were called.”
“They were,” I said.
Mara looked shocked. “Is it true? Did Patricia…”
“She hit me with a wine bottle, Mara,” I said, pulling down the collar of my shirt slightly to show her the bruise.
Mara gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my god, Elizabeth. Are you okay?”