Page 57 of Blind Justice

A head injury.The words echoed in her mind, but they felt distant, disconnected from her. The pounding in her skull grew sharper, each beat of her heart sending waves of pain radiating through her head. The darkness behind her eyes felt suffocating now, as though she were trapped underwater, unable to break the surface.

"I… I can’t see," she managed, her breath hitching as panic clawed at her throat. "Why… can’t I see?"

"Try to stay calm," the voice soothed, though its steady tone wavered. "It might be temporary. Just focus on breathing for me, okay? In and out. Nice and slow."

But Ruth couldn’t. Her breaths came in shallow bursts, her chest tightening further. The voices around her blurred together, commands shouted over the relentless hum of machines.

"Pressure’s still rising!" a woman called out.

The pain behind her skull throbbed, heavy and insistent. She tried to open her eyes wider, to will them into working, but the darkness didn’t budge. Her body betrayed her—her limbs heavy, her chest trembling with the effort of each breath.

The words around her grew sharper, more frantic, but Ruth felt herself slipping, the edges of the voices fraying like fabric unraveling. The pain dulled, the chaos dimmed, and her world narrowed to the slowing rhythm of the beeping machine.

"Ruth, stay with us. Mom is here."

The air was heavy with tension, thick with urgency. Ruth’s senses swam as she lay still, her body unresponsive to the room unfolding around her. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor seemed unnervingly slow, a metronome counting down in an uneven cadence. Her head throbbed with a dull, relentless pressure, as though her skull were caught in a tightening vise.

Somewhere nearby, her mother’s voice cut through the din, sharp and commanding.

"What are you waiting for? Get neurosurgery on the phone! Now!" Her words lashed out like a whip, and Ruth could hear the tremor of panic around her.

"Ma’am, we’re monitoring her closely," the nasal male voice replied, his tone cautious but strained. "We need to?—"

"No, you don’t need to waste any more time," her mother snapped. Her voice grew louder, angrier. “You have to do something!”

The man hesitated for a split second too long. Ruth’s sluggish mind registered the sound of fingernails tapping the keys on a phone.

Her mother’s voice sliced through the chaos. Ruth flinched instinctively at the sound, her body too heavy to move, her words trapped somewhere deep inside her.

“This is unacceptable,” her mother snapped. “Help her now, or I’ll make sure you never work in this hospital again.”

A brief pause and Ruth felt her mother’s presence like a force field beside her, vibrating with frustration and fear. The phone call connected, and the familiar voice of her brother-in-law, Tristan Blackwell, filled the space around her.

“Tristan?” her mother’s voice cracked slightly, betraying her fear. “Ruth’s here at Pierre Trauma. She’s not responding. There was an explosion. She hit her head. They’re dragging their feet.”

“What’s her status?” Tristan’s voice was sharp, all business.

“Her blood pressure’s so high. Her pulse is slowing down. The ER resident hasn’t called neurosurgery or neurology yet.”

“Put him on the phone,” Tristan demanded.

“You’re on speaker,” her mother advised.

“Ma’am, we’re slammed. The neurology and neurosurgery residents are with other patients. They’ll be here soon.”

A muffled shuffle followed, and then a younger voice—nervous, uncertain—responded, “Alright, this is Dr. Langford, ER resident.”

“Dr. Langford, this is Dr. Tristan Blackwell. Ruth Everhart is my family, and I’m on my way. Until I arrive, you’ll page Dr. James Blackwell immediately. He’s in the building, and as you should know, he’s one of the best neurosurgeons in the country. If you don’t call him right now, I’ll ensure this incident is on record with the board.”

“I—yes, Dr. Blackwell. Paging Dr. Blackwell now.”

The exchange faded into the background as Ruth’s awareness ebbed and flowed, the pounding in her head growing heavier. Her chest tightened, her breaths shallow and strained. Somewhere in the distance, her mother’s voice rang out again, but Ruth couldn’t catch the words.

A softer voice replaced the harsh edges of her mother’s. Isobel. Ruth recognized the comforting lilt of her sister’s words, close now, right by her ear. A hand patted hers.

“Ruth, it’s me. It’s Izzy,” she whispered. “You’re going to be okay. You hear me? You’re too stubborn to let this beat you. Fight, Ruth. Stay with us.”

The warmth in Isobel’s voice tugged at something inside her, a faint ember flickering in the void. Ruth wanted to respond, to reassure her sister, but her body felt disconnected, her lips refusing to form the words.

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