Page 96 of The Final Contract
“Epi in,” someone calls.
The syringe goes in. A fresh nurse takes over compressions, and I stagger back, breath tearing through me, my gloves slick with blood.
She looks like us. God, she looks just like us.
“Pulse check!”
Hands press against the neck, the groin. Silence. Nothing.
“No pulse.”
“Resume compressions,” the attending orders, but the words drag this time, heavy with doubt.
“I’ve got it,” I say, and I’m already back on the chest. My palms drive into her sternum, rhythm sharp, almost frantic. Sweat drips down my temple, stinging my eyes.
“Push one of atropine.”
The syringes empty, but the monitor doesn’t move. That awful flatline screams at us, unbroken, unrelenting.
“She’s been down thirty minutes,” a nurse murmurs, voice subdued.
“We’re losing her,” another says, softer still.
The attending nods grimly. “Another two minutes, then we call.”
But I can’t stop.
My arms keep pumping, harder, faster, my breath tearing through me. Her blonde hair is plastered to her face, streaked in blood, but I can see her through it—see Stasia.
So much like Stasia.
I slam down again and again, refusing to stop, refusing to let her go.
“Seraphina,” someone says. A warning.
I don’t hear them.
It’s my sister’s face. It’s mine. God, it could be her.
“Seraphina.”
This time it’s closer. A hand closes over my wrist, firm but gentle. I look up through my haze, and it’s Stasia standing across the table, her eyes brimming but steady.
Her voice softens. “That’s enough.”
My arms falter. My gaze drops to the woman beneath me—the blood, the broken body, the slack jaw. My chest heaves, and only now do I feel the wet streaks on my cheeks.
I look back up at Stasia, and she’s crying too.
The attending clears his throat. His voice is low. “Time of death, 03:27.”
The words cut the room into silence. One by one, the staff step back, gloves snapping off, heads bowed. The storm dies.
And I’m left with blood on my hands, my heart splintered, and the image of my sister’s face on a woman we couldn’t save.
I scrub my hands raw in the sink, watching red swirl down the drain until the water runs clear. My arms are clean now, but the scrubs are ruined. Bloodstains splatter the fabric like some macabre painting. The smell of iron clings to me no matter how hard I breathe.
I press my back against the cold tile wall, sliding down, knees drawing up, and I let it out. The sobs. The kind you choke on, the kind that wrack through your chest and leave you empty.
