Write Me Down

*Authors Note: As I have no medical background, I had to rely on internet research and KI for the information for the Emergency Room scene. I hope it's not to much "Bad Drama ER" but I can't say if it's all correct. Please don't come at me. XD

All characters and places are fictional and my own creations.

Enjoy

Chapter 1

~•~

There was a difference between quiet and silence. When something was quiet, there was still sound.

The hum of an air conditioning unit, some music playing in the background, the sound of rain, wind or birds filling the air with a peaceful atmosphere that could make you feel at ease, even if you were alone inside a dark house at 3am.

Silence, however, had nothing peaceful, nothing that made you feel at ease. The total absence of any sound, that made your skin crawl and your adrenaline soar high from fear.

And this dark house at 3am was utterly silent except for the sound of his own loud, fast breathing and the slapping of the soles of his shoes on the old hardwood floors as he ran.

He didn't know whether the wet warmth soaking his shirt was sweat or blood running down his back and arms, dripping from his fingertips, leaving a dark red glistering trail behind him.

He had tried the front door, the back door and every window he had come across. All of them were locked, some even nailed shut.

Every exit had been sealed.

Obviously someone had thought about this, planned it.

He stumbled around a corner and nearly fell.

"No..." The word came out as little more than a gasp as he caught himself against the wall, leaving behind a smear of red on the fading wall paper.

A slow creak eventually broke the silence, as something moved upstairs, the sound making every hair in his body stand up in terror.

He froze and his eyes lifted toward the darkness above him, but right after the cream, silence swallowed him again.

"Please..." He didn't even know who he was begging, but his voice was only a sobbing whisper now.

He pushed away from the wall and forced himself forward even though the hallway seemed longer now, darker. But of course that was impossible.

He knew this house, as he had walked through those very hallways dozens of times. But tonight it stretched ahead of him like something breathing, alive, swallowing the weak light from the moon outside coming through the windows and giving nothing back.

In front of him he saw the half-open door of the large living room on his right, but he could remember what was on the other side of it and shuddered. He could remember the body that had been lying there earlier, the way he had been forced to step over it in his desperate search for an exit.

He had promised himself he wouldn't look inside that room again.

Something scraped against the floor behind him and his entire body locked into place, frozen by panic.

He could hear breathing that wasn't his own, right behind him, but when he turned there was nothing there.

Just the empty hallway yet again.

His heart slammed against his ribs and tears ran down his face. Forgetting about his earlier concern, discarding the body inside the living room, he started forward through that door anyway, and when he burst through it, he nearly screamed with joy, seeing that the white screen door right in front of him stood wide open now. For one desperate second, he thought he had found a way out.

Then a hand appeared from the darkness right behind him. It seized the back of his neck.

He opened his mouth, but the knife inside his tormentor's other hand came down in one single violent movement before he could even draw the breath to scream.

Steel drove across his throat.

His eyes widened and the sound that escaped him wasn't a scream, but a faint, almost confused gurgling.

His hands flew to his neck as blood spilled between his fingers. He staggered backward, staring at the person standing in the doorway.

The knife remained buried inside his flesh for one terrible second before being pulled free.

He tried to draw a breath, but there was nothing.

His knees gave out and he collapsed onto the floor.

The last thing he saw was the killer calmly wiping the blade against a piece of bloodstained cloth.

—

Ran stared at the screen of his laptop for a moment, burying his hands in his hair before deleting the whole scene with a couple of forceful yaps at the keyboard.

He glared at the blinking cursor for a long time before he started typing again. Deleted it a second time and eventually let out a desperate groan.

"Fuuuuuuuck."

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed both hands over his face and again through his hair, until the dark brown strands stuck up in every direction, making him look like he just walked through a storm.

The scene still wasn't right, as this damn guy was dying way too quickly. Or maybe too slowly. Ran wasn't even sure anymore. He hated when those details ruined an otherwise perfectly good murder, and killed his flow (pun intended).

Ran glanced at the clock. It was 3.45 o'clock in the morning, which meant that he had been working for six hours and still there wasn't even 3000 words done.

No wonder his eyes burned, his coffee had turned cold a long time ago and his patience was as dead as the boy in his book should be.

Now Ran pushed away from the desk and, on slightly shaky legs, walked out of his office, in search of fresh coffee and maybe his  older brother, who had moved into his guestroom two months ago, after being thrown out by his (now ex-) girlfriend.

"Pasa?"

There was no answer and Ran frowned but went further through his house, towards the kitchen and living room.

"Pasa!"

Still nothing. Only then did he remember the time and that normal people would be sleeping at this hour. Suddenly the thought that he went through dark hallways just as the character in his book had, made him giggle. He had definitely arrived at the manic-writer state.

In the end he did find his brother in the living room, asleep on the sofa with a case file open across his chest, little snores escaping his parted lips in uneven puffs.

Ran stopped next to the sofa and looked down at Pasa, whose mouth stood open a bit, head bent back in an uncomfortable appearing position. The look wasn't attractive at all, so Ran shoved at his brother's shoulder.

"Seriously, hia?" (Hia means ‘older brother’ and is often used for siblings or close friends)

Pasa opened one eye, but didn't move more, except for closing his mouth.

"What?"

"I have a question."

Pasa closed his eye again, sighing.

"Of course you do."

Ran sat down opposite him on the ottoman.

"If someone got stabbed through the neck..."

Pasa now opened both eyes and lifted his head a bit, to look at his younger brother with a ‘whar the fuck are you talking about’- look, as Ran mimicked a stabbing motion towards his own neck.

"...how long would they stay conscious?"

There was silence as Pasa stared at him and Ran waited. This was probably the type of silence Ran had tried to describe in his scene. But he wasn't uncomfortable at all.

"And," he added, "how long would the knife have to be to go all the way through?"

Pasa slowly sat up.

"Ran."

"What?"

"It's almost four in the morning."

"I know."

"You woke me up to ask me how to kill someone."

"I'm writing an important scene and I'm stuck, Hia."

Pasa stared at him and Ran stared back.

"That's not an answer."

"It absolutely is."

"No, it isn't."

Ran sighed.

"Fine. Then tell me whether the person would still be able to feel the knife when it's already stuck in their neck." He made that stabbing motion towards his own neck again.

Pasa dropped his head into his hands, rubbing his neck and groaned. Ran thought that his brother's neck must be stiff from the awkward sleeping position he had been in.

"I hate your job."

"My job is the reason why you, technically, have a room to yourself right now and shouldn't be sleeping on the couch, ruining your back, as I make considerably more money than you, and was able to buy this beautiful big house, with two big guestrooms."

Pasa stared at his younger brother, who just smiled.

"That was unnecessary."

"You started it."

Pasa picked up his file and stood.

"Good night."

"Wait." Ran frowned. "You haven't answered my question."

"I don't know that."

"You're a cop."

"I investigate murders. I don't perform them."

"You must have some idea based on your cases. Come on, Hia!"

Pasa was already walking toward the hallway without looking back, case file dangling in his hand like a dead weight.

"Ask a doctor," Pasa yelled.

"Where am I supposed to find a doctor at four in the morning?"

The click of the door to the first guest room was kind of final.

"You know one?" Ran yelled anyway.

~•~

By the time the ambulance doors burst open, Krit was already waiting.

“Male, approximately thirty-five. Found unconscious in an alley behind a warehouse. Severe blood loss. Penetrating wound to the left abdomen, possible internal bleeding. Blood pressure seventy-eight over forty-six, heart rate one-forty-two. GCS nine at the scene. Two units O-negative en route.”

Krit fell into step beside the stretcher.

“Other injuries?”

“Blunt trauma to the head. Possible rib fractures. We haven't ruled out spinal injury.”

“Trauma bay two.”

The paramedics pushed the stretcher through the doors.

“Massive transfusion protocol. Call surgery. I want an ultrasound now.”

Krit pulled on his gloves.

The man on the stretcher was barely conscious. Blood had soaked through the dressing wrapped around his abdomen, spreading across his shirt and the sheet beneath him, dripping to the floor. His skin was pale, his breathing shallow and uneven.

“Pressure?”

“Seventy-four systolic.”

“Keep the blood running.”

The nurse cut through the man's shirt.

Krit leaned closer and examined the deep wound closely, before placing the ultrasound probe against the patient's abdomen.

Fluid.

A lot of it.

“Internal bleeding,” he said. “He's going to the OR.”

The surgical resident glanced at the monitor.

“His pressure is too low.”

“Then we bring it up.”

“We're already giving blood.”

“Then give more.”

Krit's voice remained calm.

“Another large-bore IV.”

“Already placed.”

“Good.”

The patient's heart rate climbed.

“One-sixty.”

Krit glanced at the monitor.

“Keep going.”

The man's eyelids fluttered, and Krit leaned toward him.

“Sir. Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

“Open your eyes.”

The patient's eyes opened halfway, but they were unfocused.

“Good. Stay with me.”

The man tried to speak, his lips moving, so Krit lowered his head.

“What is your name?”

The man's lips moved again, but no sound made it past them.

“Okay, don't worry. Just breathe.”

The patient's hand suddenly came up and his fingers closed around Krit's wrist, the grip weak but desperate.

Krit looked down at him again, as the man's eyes sharpened for the fraction of a second.

“Don't…”

His voice was barely more than air, and the man's breathing hitched, as he pressed out the next words.

“Let them…”

He swallowed.

“…find me.”

Don't let them find me.

“Who?”

The patient's eyes moved toward Krit, but they didn't seem to see him.

“They know.”

“Who knows?”

His lips moved again. “Fourteen… The files.”

A pause.

“I didn't mean for it to go this far.”

Then his eyes rolled back, and the monitor screamed.

“Pressure?”

“Forty-eight.”

Krit moved without hesitation.

Every command was short and every movement deliberate.

He didn't think about the blood soaking his gloves.

He didn't think about the strange words the man had pressed out with his remaining strength.

There was only the patient and keeping him alive. That was the job.

Minutes later, the patient's condition stabilized enough for surgery.

“OR is ready.”

“Move.”

The stretcher disappeared through the operating-room doors, and Krit stepped back as his part was done. He had kept the man alive long enough for others to take over.

Only then did he look down at himself, where blood covered the front of his scrubs. He would need to change.

A nurse approached carrying a clear evidence bag.

“Doctor. These came from the patient.”

Inside were a wallet, a badly cracked and bent phone, a old fashioned gold watch, and a set of keys.

“No identification?”

“His wallet was empty, but there's something else.”

A small plastic card had been tucked beneath the man's phone.

Krit looked at it. The smalll photograph clearly showed his patient and his name and an identification number were beneath it, but most importantly, there was the insignia of the Royal Thai Police.

Krit's expression changed.

“He's a police officer.”

The nurse nodded.

“We just confirmed it with the number. They said they'll inform his relatives.”

Krit looked toward the operating-room doors.

The man he had just fought to keep alive wasn't an anonymous victim.

He was a cop.