This is old. I vaguely remember writing this, perhaps gaining inspiration from an article I read in health class. A few things format-wise have been changed, but the story remains the same.
Being a doctor at the emergency room can steel you for anything. Still, this girl that came in today caused me to shiver. She was rushed in at about 3 on a stretcher, screaming. Her arms were bloody; deep long gashes ran down each. Her feet were lumps of charred flesh: the toes just grimy bones. Her hair had been pulled our, ripping some of the scalp off with it. These injuries themselves didn't shock me: I'd seen much worse. It was when I came over to help control her thrashing, and I met her gaze. Those stone-gray pools of panic and tears tore through my conscience, causing me to turn away. Those eyes were worse than the injuries. There was something terrible in them, something I couldn't quite place. It was like viewing the damned gates of Hell: a deep rotting void of despair.
The girl's screamed brought me back to reality. As attendants carefully moved her unto a hospital bed, she squirmed and shrieked. "Find Jenna! Jenna did this to me!!!" she wailed. I took charge, administering one dosage of sedatives, hoping she would be more compliant once she woke up again. The girl turned her head groggily towards me, those murky eyes now swimming into submission. "Find Jenna." She whispered.
An hour later, the girl, who identified herself as Chelsea, was awake, though still on a few drugs to keep her in check. She noted my entry into the room with sorrow and turned her head away to look out the window. I decided that the first thing to do was to look over the x-rays we had taken while she was out. Chelsea's voice entered my mind as I put them up. "Jenna did this to me." She said woodenly. I turned, surprised, berating myself for disregarding her earlier claims as just babble. Grabbing a seat, I scooted over to Chelsea's bedside. She wouldn't look at me.
"Who's Jenna?" I asked quietly. Chelsea shrugged.
Great, this was getting off to a productive start. I decided to try a different tactic. "Why did Jenna do this?" I asked, "Was she mad at you? Did you try and stop her?" Chelsea sighed, the sound becoming very hollow in the ER room.
"We had a fight," she said softly, "she-" but that was as far as she got before succumbing to tears.
I pressed on. "Did she call you names? Did she steal something? Get you in trouble? Did she steal your boyfriend? Did she cheat on you?"
Chelsea shook her head at my entourage of questions. Like a soul reaching damnation, she motioned to her pants lying on a table nearby. I checked the pockets and withdrew a small piece of paper; it was a 2-day-old article on the suicide of Jenna Wirtman.
I looked up at Chelsea. She nodded gravely and then burst into soul-wrenching tears.
"She left me."