Post by Deleted on Jan 17, 2013 17:16:07 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 366x; height: 190px; padding: 10px; background-color: #dcdcdc; border: #1c161e 30px solid;] all those red flags and long nights It had been a long, long day. Especially when it was meant to be an evening off. After a full week Sixsmith had been looking forward to an evening to himself without being on call. The fates it seemed had a very different plan for the evening. No sooner was he home Harvey was around his feet giving a sharp meow in a demand for food. “Hey Harvey.” He greeted the cat with a scratch behind the ear which was only rewarded with an impertinent glare. A hot bath, a book – something cheerful, quick dinner, a glass of wine and an early night. For Vincent, physically exhausted from several days of long hours crawling home for a few hours sleep before the cycle started all over again it sounded nothing short of bliss. He made it little further then emptying a sachet into Harvey’s bowl before a quick collapse onto the sofa, just a few minutes before he got on with things. Naturally he was out like a light within seconds. He was awoken with a start, leaping up to his feet automatically as a shrill alarm gave it’s now well recognised cry from his coat pocket. Unusual. He had never been called in before in the rare hours he was not either on duty or on emergency call. The rules governing the working rates of the healers were rather stringent, as he supposed they had to be when one hospital alone catered to an entire society. They’d only be calling him back if they had no other option. His heart sank to the bottom of his stomach in apprehension, already having a horrible feeling what would be awaiting him when he appeared, ruffled but most definitely awake back at the work place he’d left but an hour or two previously. St. Mungo’s was nothing short of chaos. Alarms echoing from floor upon floor, the reception crowded with patients in various states of disarray, staff racing through the corridors back and forth. Without hesitation he race through the streams of people past the lifts to the service stairs soon to the staff lockers pulling on his robes and reporting to the chief of staff who updated him on the situation and set him to work before sprinting off in the opposite direction. Another attack. In Hogsmeade again. Would those poor people never have any peace? He had only just graduated into his full healer status before the last attack and had been quite unprepared for the bedlam of it all. Before the most he had seen of large scale attacks, of victims of war was the Qudditch World Cup attack and there had been few casualties and even fewer deaths there. The first Hogsmeade attack with so many injured, so many marks of those lost strewn across the patient board. By the end almost all the staff had carried the exhausted haunted look of defeat in the face of being able to do so little. There were fewer deaths this time thankfully. But the conversations that would come when many of the patients awoke would be anything but pleasant. Lives had been taken and even more changed. Healing the wounds knitting the skin back together was the easy part, the wounds that lay beneath were almost the most difficult, the changes that were left. There would be those who would have to be informed of lost loved ones, those who would awake to find parts of them missing, and those who would be told of changes to their physiognomy, of how the full moon may affect them from now on. It was some hours later that the worst of the patients, the ravaged and dying would have been stabilised and medical attention was moved onto the remainder of the waiting and now mostly walking masses. Things were significantly quieter. He had seen the odd werewolf attack, more so as of the late but nothing like the savagery he had witnessed this evening, the tales he had glimpsed through his treatments. How? That he just didn’t understand. How could any human think to use the werewolves like a weapon, living people who had no option in their actions, who could do nothing to stop themselves, to place them in a situation where they could awake stained in blood and worse. How could they just stand back and watch such savagery, allow it and even worse orchestrate it. An attack on innocent, unsuspecting people, on students, children who had no part in the fight of this war however it was looked at. How people could be capable of such cruelty and not be buried under their guilt he would never understand. Finally finished on the higher floors of critical patients Vincent made his way down the stairs towards the reception where walking patients were being shuffled into any available room and seen by any healer available no matter the speciality. Staffing had been low as of late as it was. Running a quick hand through the mass of brown hair he stifled a yawn, grabbing up the nearest file. “Sixsmith, go home!” A sharp yell interrupted him from behind. “I just need…” He attempted to argue in his usual soft Irish brogue. “Go home! You’re no good to us dead on your feet. Things are quieting down. Get a few hours, get back in tomorrow.” Somewhat reluctantly he nodded conceding his chief of staff was right, he wouldn’t be any good to anyone if he started making tired mistakes. Placing the file back where he found it and shrugging off the outer robe, slinging it over his shoulder to announce to those that might throw him papers and new patients on their hurried way past that he was no longer on duty he began to make his way towards to exit, not that after what he had seen today sleep would be remotely possible. The moment the robe was removed he felt the heaviness of exhaustion set it’s way in, barely registering the hallways he’d spent the last seven years in during his training. Rounding a corner sharply he came to an abrupt stop as he crashed unceremoniously straight into someone. “Ah god I’m sorry!” the flustered declaration fell from him instantly. Quickly moving to help her if it was needed. The last thing these patients needed was there supposed healers crashing into them. “I’m so sorry, are you alright?” He repeated frantically, a blush threatening to reach his cheeks as he blustered. words; 1081. tag; andrea brennan. notes; Gosh Vincent why don’t you look where you’re going! (shifty eyes) ELLE LIKE COOL of ESM |
