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Memoirs of a (Fallen) Doctor: The Days We Had

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Olivia made another pass through the makeshift hospice, filling in minor and major details on a clipboard. A quirked eyebrow here, or a false smile there kept her almost normal to most people. Fear could be hidden. Quite easily, really. Heading back inside her own tent, she let out a sigh, crimson-stained hands running through blonde locks, staining them with a day's work. Soon enough, her journal comes out.


I suppose... I never said sorry. Not really, at the very least. Then again, I feel as if I'm stuck in space and time, doomed to repeat this life over and over, again. 


What we're doing here... It reminds me of home. Of Cassandra. Of John. How we used to fly, all of us. I wonder if I'd even be recognized after all of these years.


'Leave it in the past, the future is all we have,' they'd tell me during the meetings. I'm still unsure of how one should be able to get the images out of their head, the memories and the hurt. Is it bad to just want to feel good for, at the very least, a single day? Perhaps I just don't want to let go, or don't know how. Perhaps I'm yet another 'good,' person who has succumbed to the evils and demons of this world. Though... I've come to realize that the demons are not the dead, no, but my own fears. My own, personal, needs and wants. Sometimes I think I can even understand them.


The pills are beginning to get harder and harder to find... Might have to try something else. Anything else, to get the pain to go away. The patients need it. Morphine for the good-bye call, sending them away to rest. Valium to come back down, to calm the senses. Oxy to...


My love... To this day, I still want to imagine you the way you were, before all of this. Young, intelligent, the lines across your eyes and in your soul nonexistent and erasable. The way you filled my heart to the brim, ready to spill out. Not... Not the way they left you.


-Olivia, PHD


Fingering the near-tattered paramedic clothing she was accustomed to, she stared down at the pages, not being able to make much sense of her own ramblings at the very second. Was she, indeed, beginning to go a bit insane? Perhaps her separating of herself from others had had something to do with it. Almost as if in some form of holy answer, a shot rang out, then two, outside the walls. The guards seemed to be calling orders. Pen clattering on the small desk, followed by the pages of the journal, she stormed out from the tent.

Edited by Zelith

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