Page 73 of Savage

“Stef, get out,” I order roughly, pulling the door open.

She doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t answer, because she’s passed out against the corner of the shower stall.

Her skin is pale, almost as white as the tile.

The only color is the watered-down red flowing from her wrists.

I stare, and my breath hitches, and for one long second, I can’t see or hear anything.

Then I come to my senses, and I lurch forward. I turn off the water and hold my hand in front of her mouth, press my fingers to her throat. It’s hard to tell, but she’s still breathing. She still has a pulse, even if it’s faint.

Fuck.

Fuck!

I pull my phone out of my pocket, and I’m amazed that my hands are steady as I dial 911. As soon as I’m connected, I calmly say, “Hello, my name is Dr. Hunter Savage. My girlfriend attempted suicide. She’s lost a lot of blood, so I’m going to need…” I give the operator more emotionless, clinical detail, then my address. They try to keep me on the line, but I have other things to do. I hang up on the operator, then go for the first aid kit I have stashed under the sink.

I bandage her wrists and hands up, and once I’m sure the wounds are as sealed as I can get them, I pick her up and carry her out to the living room.

She needs a blanket. Her body is cold and clammy.

I set her down on the couch and go to the linen closet, pulling out three blankets. I get them around her, gratified when I notice her lips trembling.

Shivers are good. Shivers mean she’s still alive.

I should… I need to…

No, I can’t panic. Panicking won’t keep her alive. I’ve done what I can so far.

She’ll need clothes though. I go back to my bedroom and begin packing a bag with things we’ll need in the hospital. I pack clothes for myself, too, because I’m not going to leave her side.

My intercom rings, and I let the EMTs in.

“Sir, what happened?” one of them asks as they place Stef onto the stretcher.

I stare for a second. “I don’t… know? I went to work. I got back and found her in the shower. Her wrists were…”

That satisfies the EMTs, because it’s such a standard answer. Nobody knows why suicidal people commit suicide. It’s always a shock, unexpected.

I’ve always hated those cases during my residency, having to do my damnedest to save the people who didn’t even want to live. Why waste resources on that trash, when there are others who do want to survive?

But Stef isn’t trash. Maybe they weren’t trash either, not to the people who cared for them. Maybe…

No matter how I feel, I can’t let Stef die.

I ride with the ambulance to the closest hospital. It’s the one I direct my patients to when it’s time to deliver their babies. The EMTs rush her into urgent care, and I try to follow, but one of the nurses stops me.

I vaguely recognize her, but I have to glance at her name tag to remember who she is.

“Dr. Savage, hi,” Miriam says, tablet in hand. “Can you fill out the paperwork for your friend?”

I look at the tablet, and I frown at it. “I want to be there. I can—”

“This isn’t your area of expertise,” she chastises gently. “You’ll help out more by doing all this.”

One of the boxes at the top is Family Name.

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