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My mind goes blank, my Hippocratic Oath disappearing, and I run over to the fucker and lift the axe up, then bring it down on his right hand, hitting the fingers that are taped to the chair. All four fall to the floor, blood squirting out of the wounds. Harold cries behind the gag as his thumb moves. I drop the axe, then quickly pack the wound, ensuring he doesn’t bleed out. I grab the axe again, lift it, and cut through the fingers on his other hand, and I grin.
Do no harm? Fuck that! Nobody touches my sister.
I breathe heavily, trying to control myself, ready to swing the axe into the guy’s neck, when Smokey comes to stand next to me. He takes a puff of his cigarette before blowing it in the fucker's face. Harold’s eyes flood with tears as Smokey rasps, "Looks like you've gone and fucked up, sir!"
Harold lets out a sob while I sneer at him, gripping the axe tighter in my hand before Smokey puts his cig out on the fucker’s forehead, digging it in deep. He announces, “Time for some fun, boys.”
I don’t even grin. Instead, I pick the axe up, and then swing it down on the fuckers kneecap, making him scream behind his gag.
Smokey, Snake, and I spend the next hour torturing the guy, before I leave them in the outhouse to clear up the mess. I go to the tree out back behind the club house, still covered in blood, where my sister is currently sitting, crying.
When our gazes connect, she gasps in shock at the state of me, and I rasp, “The fucker won’t be a problem again,” before turning around and heading to the clubhouse.
I need to call Kennedy, and if she doesn’t answer, then I need to write to her.
Fuck, I just need her. I don’t know how much more I can take without her. The selfish part of me is ready to kill Prue so I can go after my girl, while the other part knows I can’t.
Fuck….
12
Kennedy – One Week Later
I look at the monitor, and my heart sinks.
Still flatline.
I grab the Epinephrine, quickly unscrew the cannula, and insert the needle. Slowly, I press the fluid into the tube and wait, my eyes on the monitor as the doctor rushes forward, putting on his gloves.
“What do we have, Kennedy?” he asks, looking over the baby.
I swallow hard and rasp, “Came in from my break to the alarm sounding. Oxygen levels dropped to 45% before nothing. Flatline for four minutes. I started resuscitation and administered Epinephrine, and so far, nothing.”
He nods, approval shining at me, but I ignore it and continue resuscitation, mumbling, “Come on, Freddie….”
Freddie a preemie, born at only twenty-two weeks, and I’m not proud of it, but I did connect with this little boy, him reminding me of my daughter.
“Let’s go ahead and administer adenosine.”
I give the doctor a nod and do as asked, while everyone rushes around, trying to save this tiny little boy as I wonder where in the hell the nurse who was in charge is.
A few hours later, I’m walking into my apartment feeling defeated. We lost the baby. Freddie’s little heart couldn’t cope, and he died.
My tears fall, and a sob crawls its way up my throat. It’s late, really late. The nurse, Alya, who was supposed to be attending him, has been suspended. It was confirmed in Freddie’s chart that she gave him another child’s medication and the other child’s Freddie’s medicines, before going to the on-call room with a patient's father. We didn’t realize where she had gone until the man’s wife found them together.
We, thankfully, managed to help the other child before any serious damage could be done, but there will definitely be an investigation and, if the family isn’t happy, a lawsuit.
Alya will be lucky to get any nursing job after this; she’s a Becky 2.0.
I squeeze my eyes shut. He was so small and had such a long life ahead of him, and because of her, because his family trusted a nurse, he’s gone.
Sniffling, I throw my keys on the table and sit on my couch, my eyes going to a picture of Doc. He’s leaning against his Harley, his white V-neck t-shirt straining against his muscles as he grins at the camera.
My tears coat my cheeks, the need for him pulling me and, without thinking, I grab my phone from my pocket and dial his number.
He answers instantly, voices echoing through the receiver as he questions, “Pixie?”
He sounds concerned, and I feel guilty, but I needed to hear his voice. I know that’s selfish, but I lost our child and Freddie; his death hit close to home, and I know Doc’s voice will help ease it a little. I start to sob, lying down on the couch with my phone to my ear.
