Coffee Crumbs

The Game the Gods Play

Winner of  the ❝A Grey Choice❞ contest,

written by LMorthor

The most important thing for a surgeon is not his tools, not his technique in cutting up bodies, or his familiarity with the human anatomy, it is his sound judgement.

When Dylan Vanderbilt, the infamous "Executioner of The Twelve", was wheeled into the ER this afternoon, with increased intracranial pressure due to swollen brain from the car accident along Sunny Boulevard, I knew it is one of those days when I need a better than sound judgement.

"Remind me again why we have to save this motherfucker?" Dr. Chastity Baker, a fellow neurosurgeon attending, asked without concealing the disgust in her eyes. "He killed innocent people with his bare hands, Sam! I had to do a five-hour simultaneous repair with one of his victims as she bled on my table! A pregnant woman who is now dead! And here we are, trying to put this piece of shit back together and save his god-damned life when he doesn't even deserve to live!"

"Primum non nocere. First, do no harm. We swore an oath, Chaz. This is what we are trained to do". I said flatly as the whirring sound of the drill filled the theatre. "Besides, it's not like I can send him away. If I did, that's dereliction of duty". I carefully made small holes on the exposed skull of our patient to relieve the swelling like how we were trained during the first year of internship.

"What if this son-of-a-bitch killed one of yours, would you still save him?" she pressed, and when I didn't answer, she glared at me. "I just don't understand why people like him deserve a second chance when they could've just left him there to die. . . You know. . . every surgery has its risks, something out of the ordinary could suddenly happen, right?" she suggested, leaving heavy words floating in the air. She looked around, trying to convince the staff with her reasoning, appealing to their empathies. Some of them nod in agreement while the rest of us stayed focused.

Part of our profession is like playing god, running and walking around with blades on our hands, conscientiously tiptoeing around eggshells called morals.

"Whether he lives or dies isn't up to us. We just need to do our part. I can manage if this is too hard for you". I said as I carefully removed the subdural clot with a small suction catheter. Dr. Baker is eyeing me fervidly. Any wrong movement could potentially damage the brain for good. "Vitals?" I asked.

"Blood pressure is slowly stabilising. Pulse is good".

Two hours passed and I finished stitching Dylan. I shine a light against his eyes and when I saw his pupils are equal, his lab tests slightly okay, his body responding to emergency treatments, and safe from the brink of death, I knew my job was done. I sometimes wonder what he sees when he looks into the eyes of his victims as he drains the life out of them.

Contempt? Fear?

Is that what makes him tick?

Does he look into their eyes?

I scrubbed out and let the nurses do the aftercare. I head to the lounge to drink some coffee and contemplate the nagging voice inside my head questioning my sound judgement.

Chaz was right. They should've just left him there to die. He killed twelve innocent people on a whim. He doesn't deserve to live. If only there had been some kind of delay in between transporting him to our hospital then I wouldn't be cracking up his skull to save his life when he, Dylan Vanderbilt, had no regard for it.

But I can't let my emotions cloud my judgement.

It isn't up to me if he lives or dies.

'Whatever helps you sleep at night', the voice inside my head mocked.