Page 8 of The Beast’s Broken Angel

HANDS THAT HEAL

NOAH

M y hands remained steady despite twenty hours on shift, suturing a laceration on a teenage cyclist while mentally tracking four other trauma patients simultaneously.

The needle wove through skin with fluid movements born from thousands of similar wounds, my fingers remembering what my exhausted brain might otherwise forget.

The emergency department of London Royal buzzed with controlled chaos around me, a symphony of beeping monitors, urgent voices, and squeaking trolley wheels that I found oddly comforting after all these years.

“Almost done,” I assured the terrified sixteen-year-old whose forehead I was piecing back together. “You'll have a proper war story for school, but the scar will fade nicely if you use the cream I'm prescribing.”

The boy's mother hovered anxiously nearby, her third cup of vending machine tea clutched in trembling hands.

Beyond our curtained bay, a cacophony of human suffering provided the soundtrack to another day in London's busiest trauma centre.

A drunk man bellowed obscenities at security, an elderly woman called weakly for a nurse, someone vomited noisily in the neighbouring cubicle.

“Multiple-vehicle collision arriving in three minutes,” Mika announced, sliding a fresh trauma packet onto my workstation.

Her vibrant purple hair was pulled back in a practical bun, her scrubs bearing witness to a shift as brutal as my own.

“They're routing the critical cases to us since Mercy Hospital's ED is on diversion.”

She paused, eyes flicking toward the entrance. “Oh, and heads up. Security's on high alert. Some bloke's been spotted wandering restricted areas. Management thinks he might be after drugs from the dispensary.”

I swallowed an exhausted sigh, completing the final suture with steady hands.

The thread pulled skin together in a neat line that would heal with minimal scarring if properly cared for—a small victory in a day that had offered precious few.

No time to dwell on fatigue or the fact that I was supposed to finish my shift an hour ago.

Isabelle's medication costs wouldn't pay themselves.

“Right, you're sorted,” I told the cyclist, applying the final dressing. “Instructions for wound care are in here. Any dizziness, confusion, or fever, come straight back.”

I scribbled my signature on the discharge papers, already mentally shifting to the incoming trauma cases. My feet ached, my lower back throbbed, and hunger gnawed at my stomach, but these discomforts remained background noise to the immediate demands of the job.

“Got time for a quick cuppa?” Mika asked, falling into step beside me as I headed toward the trauma bay.

“Chance would be a fine thing,” I replied with a wry smile. “Rain check?”

She nodded, understanding without needing explanation.

We'd started at the same hospital five years ago, forging a friendship in the trenches of overnight shifts and cardiac arrests.

Mika knew about Isabelle, about the financial tightrope I walked each month, about the exhaustion that had become my constant companion.

“I'll grab you a sandwich at least,” she offered. “You're looking proper knackered.”

Before I could answer, I was already moving to the trauma bay, automatically checking equipment while pulling on fresh protective gear.

The overhead speakers blared notifications about incoming patients as adrenaline temporarily washed away my bone-deep weariness.

I checked the crash cart supplies, confirmed the ultrasound machine was charged, and verified the rapid infuser was operational.

Dr. Jonathan Hayes joined me, his usually immaculate appearance somewhat compromised after twelve hours on duty. His expensive watch caught the fluorescent lighting as he snapped on gloves. “Multiple traumas coming in. Hastings, you're with me on the first arrival. Should be here any?—”

The ambulance bay doors burst open as if on cue. Paramedics rushed forward with the first gurney, rattling off vital information in the clipped, urgent cadence of professionals triaging on the move.

“Male, mid-thirties, massive chest trauma, already intubated. BP 80/40, tachy at 130, sat dropping despite one hundred percent oxygen. Two large-bore IVs running wide open with saline.”

I immediately identified a tension pneumothorax from the shifted trachea and distended neck veins.

“Need a chest decompression kit,” I called out, moving to the patient's side as we transferred him from the ambulance gurney to our trauma bed.

My focus narrowed to this single life hanging in precarious balance, the rest of the chaotic department fading to background noise .

“Get me a 14-gauge needle,” I said to the newest nurse on rotation, whose name temporarily escaped my exhausted brain.

My hands moved with practised speed, preparing the insertion site between the ribs while monitoring the patient's rapidly deteriorating oxygen levels.

The chest wall proved resistant, requiring firm pressure to breach the pleural space.

The satisfying rush of air confirmed my diagnosis, the patient's oxygen levels immediately beginning to climb as pressure was released from his collapsed lung.

“Good catch, Hastings,” Dr. Hayes acknowledged with a brief nod. “Let's get a chest tube in and then straight to CT.”

The next three hours dissolved into a blur of critical interventions, blood transfusions, and rapid decisions.

Five severe traumas from the vehicle collision, each requiring immediate life-saving measures.

My world contracted to these trauma bays, to the mechanical process of keeping damaged bodies functioning until surgery could provide definitive care.

Despite our best efforts, we lost the fifth patient—a young woman with catastrophic internal bleeding who arrested on the table.

I performed chest compressions until my arms burned and my shoulders screamed in protest, but the monitor's flat line refused to change.

Dr. Hayes finally called it after thirty minutes of futile resuscitation attempts.

“Time of death, 18:42,” he announced, his voice carrying the professional detachment we all cultivated as protective armour. Only the tight line of his jaw betrayed the frustration we shared.

I stepped back from the table, my scrubs bearing testament to the collision's toll—blood spatter, iodine stains, sweat marks.

My back hit the wall, and I allowed myself the luxury of closing my eyes for thirty precious seconds.

The image of the young woman's face remained burned into my retinas, another ghost to join the collection that sometimes visited my dreams .

A sudden commotion from the main hallway snapped me back to full alertness. Shouting voices, the heavy thud of running feet, then a hospital-wide alert code blaring from the overhead speakers. “Code Silver, Emergency Department. Code Silver, Emergency Department.”

My blood went cold. Code Silver—armed intruder. We'd drilled for this scenario but had never faced it in reality during my tenure.

“Lock it down,” Dr. Hayes ordered, immediately moving to secure the trauma area doors. “Standard protocol. Patients who can move, behind beds. Critical patients, cover with staff bodies if necessary.”

Heart pounding, I helped shift our remaining trauma patients to less exposed positions, placing myself between the unconscious chest trauma patient and the doors.

Years of growing up in London's roughest estates had taught me how to function through fear, to compartmentalise immediate danger while focusing on necessary action.

Through the small window in the trauma bay doors, I caught glimpses of controlled chaos—security personnel moving in tactical formation, staff ushering ambulatory patients behind counters and into storage rooms. Then I saw him—a dishevelled man in his thirties, wild-eyed and desperate, brandishing what looked like a pistol while shouting demands I couldn't quite hear through the sealed doors.

“James Wilson,” a nurse whispered beside me, having peered through the same window.

“His brother was found shot in an alley near here early this morning. Whoever called it in thought he might still be alive, so the ambulance brought him straight here. DOA on arrival with what looked like execution-style wounds.”

The name rang no bells for me—I'd been off-shift when the brother was brought in—but the armed man's anguished expression told a clear story of grief transformed into rage. He was scanning the department frantically, clearly searching for someone specific rather than engaging in random violence.

Our trauma bay doors suddenly slammed open, making everyone flinch.

But instead of the armed man, a group of suited men entered with startling coordination, moving with the practised formation of professionals.

Two immediately took positions flanking the doors while another spoke urgently into a concealed microphone at his wrist.

“Remain calm and continue with patient care,” the apparent leader instructed, his Eastern European accent thick but understandable. “We are handling the situation.”

Before anyone could question their authority or identity, the bay doors opened again to admit a gurney flanked by paramedics.

“GSW to the upper chest,” the lead paramedic announced, though his usual clinical detachment seemed compromised by the identity of his patient.

“Appeared to be through-and-through initially, but on closer inspection it's a deep graze along previous scar tissue. Patient conscious but combative.”

The suited men immediately formed a protective perimeter around the incoming gurney. As the paramedics transferred their charge to our trauma bed, I got my first clear look at the gunshot victim—and felt my professional calm falter momentarily.