Hi! Thenamesh doctor au has so much potential and you weite it absolutely beautiful!
How about a car crashes into the ER? It was this crazy episode in Chicago med that gave me the idea!The car crashes, driver unconscious and injured BUT we want drama so let’s say Thena is trapped under the car, injured and in a dangerous situation because the car is slowly coming down on her. A nurse/doc is going under the car to stop the bleeding on her leg, but she is slowly loosing consciousness and Gil and the fireman are trying to lift the car and get her out!
Let’s goooo! Give und the drama, angst and something sweet in the end!
"What the hell happened?!"
Ajak runs into the hallway to cut them off, walking backwards as they continue towards the sounds of chaos coming from the ER. "Everyone is already inside, the fire department and everyone spare is already here helping."
Kingo frowns at her explanation, which isn't an explanation at all and really just her telling them what was being done after the fact. "Okay, but what actually happened?"
"Well," Ajak gives them both a look that makes them frown. "A taxi crashed through the outer wall. The driver was asleep at the wheel, tox-screens haven't come back with if he was under the influence of anything yet, but..."
"But?" Gil pressed, liking Ajak's nervous demeanour less and less.
"But, well, there's...someone pinned under the car," Ajak tells them with a wince on her face that extends to her bunched up shoulders. She stops walking backwards to make way for them, planting her feet and holding her hands out. "One of our own."
"What?" Kingo asks with a worried knot between his brows, "who?!"
Gil watches Ajak's eyes move over to him, her worry and grief doubling when their eyes meet. He takes off in a run, not letting Ajak dig her heels in to stop him. "Thena!"
"Take it easy, buddy," one of the firemen holds his hand up before Gil can run in and insert himself into their rescue efforts. "I take it you're Gil."
"Wh...h-how..." Gil stutters, stuck on the sight of a sunshine blonde ponytail winding into his vision.
"We're doing out best to get the car stabilised," the other emergency responder promises. "The bumper's somewhere between coming off the car completely and in danger of dragging her up with it when we move them."
"What do you mean?" Gil asks numbly, barely hearing it as he tries to get a real look at her.
"Gil," Ajak calls out gently, trying to pull him back to her with a hand on his arm. "The car punctured her leg...there's some bleeding."
Gil's body jerks in her direction reflexively but he's held in place again.
"But it's also applying pressure when none of us can even reach in to do it ourselves. It's saving her just as much as it's hurting her--that's why this is so delicate."
Gil shakes his head, blinking as tears fill his eyes. His chest feels tight, his vision narrows to directly in front of him. "H-How...how long...?"
"Well-"
"How long has she been down there?!" Gil roars at the fireman, who is at least understanding of his hysteria.
The other man pulls Gil's hands off of him with a stern but un-angered expression. "We're doing everything we can. This process is tricky, considering the doc's position."
Gil turns to Ajak in search of more support for his argument. "Then get someone under there with her!--get me under there with her! I can clamp the bleeding and make some room for her!"
"Gil, we are not putting you under a car!" Ajak argues back at him, ready to stand her ground on the matter. "You don't think I want to help Thena?! You don't think I'd trade places with her if I could?! We have a job to do, Gilgamesh!"
Gil sighs, deflating visibly. She's right, and he knows she's right. He even knows that it's exactly what Thena would be telling him if she could. He nods, feeling Kingo rub his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. He waves his hand, walking forward, slowly and listlessly. "Just--just let me..."
The working firemen frown as he approaches the wreck but Ajak nods at them.
Gil slips his hand under Thena's head, moving into her field of vision.
"G-Gil?"
She's fatigued, the adrenaline having worn off. She's cognizant at least. He leans closer, watching the pupils of her beautiful green eyes change minutely as he blocks out the blaring LEDs of the firefighters around them.
"Hey," he whispers, smiling at her as best he can. He eyes the bumper that's pressing into her right thigh and extending at an angle over her left hip. Her left arm is tucked into her side, probably trying to keep the hard metal from doing any more damage to her delicate little frame.
Gil lies right down beside her, looking at her with their heads resting on the ground, among the rubble, and the glass, and the blood (her blood). He takes her hand in his. "What have you gotten yourself into?"
She manages a smile, which he knows is her putting on a brave face for him. He can see how tired she is--she's paler than normal. "I'm always saying I wouldn't be able to do this job without you."
Gil smiles back, until she coughs a little. No one actually did tell him how long they had been working at this, but he doesn't like the pallor of her skin, or the glassiness in her eyes. "Give me your hand."
Thena pulls her right hand out from lying at her side. She slides it into his. Her fingers are even more frightfully cold than normal.
"Squeeze," he orders, and she can at least do that much, although it's not nearly as strong as he might like. He holds the hand in his and looks at her. "Thena, are you okay?"
"I'm okay," she whispers back to him as they continue to be worked around. "They're trying to keep the car from collapsing on me because the axle - or whatever - is damaged. Everyone who was in the waiting room has been moved to-"
"Not that, Honey," he corrects her, his thumb running over her hand in his. He holds her eyes, dreading every time they flutter closed just to blink. "I don't care about that right now. I care about you."
Thena looks at him in a way he's never quite seen before.
Gil pulls the hand up to his lips. They feel even colder when he kisses them. "Are. You. Okay?"
Thena looks at him. She looks, and looks, her mind going a mile a minute behind those eyes. A few tears slip out, over the bridge of her nose and down her temple to the ground. "It's cold."
"You're cold?" Gil's heart breaks as she nods, her lip wobbling a little. But why wouldn't she be cold? Why wouldn't she be cold and scared, lying under a car that could put an end to her active career, if not crush her completely?
Thena closes her eyes, letting the one or two tears slip away as Gil moves as close as he can, pressing his forehead to hers and pulling her hand to his chest. She inhales, and then sighs, "you're warm."
"I'm right here, baby," he whispers, as if the sweet words would be enough to blanket her against the saws and the jacks and the rainy night outside that's being let in through the crumbling remains of their walls at their feet.
"Gil...if-"
"Hey," he shakes his head, leaning forward to kiss between her furrowed eyebrows. "No 'if's. You're going to be fine. Because I am right here."
"Okay, you two, we're almost ready to move."
Ajak appears at their side, as does Kingo. Gil grips Thena's hand in his.
"This is gonna happen fast, okay? Thena told us that the pressure is what's keeping her bleeding minimal. Once we lift this thing up, we have to get the torn metal out of her leg, get the bleeding clamped, and get her out from under this thing in as little time as possible."
"We're ready," Kingo nods, him with the stretcher, Ajak with the clamps.
Gil shimmies himself into position, "lift it straight up, so her leg isn't torn too bad. If I'm here with her, I can take some of the weight off her so she can move her leg for herself."
"Okay, you four. Here we go!"
Thena lets out a scream that makes their hair stand on end. She - and Gil - get her leg disconnected from the shard stabbing her. Gil keeps himself as between Thena and the bumper as possible. Kingo slides her out from under it and Ajak gets the wound on her leg secured as Gil rolls out as well.
They all wince as the car comes down within seconds of them all getting out safely.
Ajak and Kingo are aghast but Gil leans over Thena again, pushing a few hairs out of her face. "Honey, you okay?"
Thena is shivering in the stretcher as they latch her in and prepare to transfer her to the gurney. Her cream coloured scrubs are covered in rubble and rain and blood. The cut on her leg is nasty enough that she'll be lucky to only need a week or two off of work.
"Thena," Gil repeats, unwilling to lose sight of her now. He squeezes her hand, "Sweetheart, look at me."
She manages to pry her eyes open and nod.
Gil keeps her hand in his, standing as they get her onto the gurney and start making their way to a room to treat their poor Doctor. Gil jogs beside them, not willing to leave her side. "You're okay, Thena. I'm right here."
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what is with men being mad any time a woman raises her voice where did that even come from. someone posted a video of a small electrical explosion, and the top comment was of course the woman screams. the second comment is women try not to scream challenge, level impossible. i had to go back and watch the video again. there is, somewhat fainty, a little gasp emitted off-camera, more of a yelp than a scream. it is mostly lost in the crack of the explosion. afterwards, you hear her voice, shaken, say, are you okay?
i am helping one of my friends train her voice pitch lower, because she wants to be taken seriously at work. she and i do each other's nails and talk about gender roles; and how - due to our appearance - neither of us have ever been able to be "hysterical" in public. we both appear young and sweet and feminine. she is cisgender, and cannot use her natural voice in her profession because people keep saying she appears to be "vapid". we both try to figure out if our purposeful voice lowering is technically sexist. is it promoting something when you are a victim to it?
a storm almost sends a pole through a car window. in the dashcam, you can hear the woman passenger say her partner's name twice, crying out in alarm. she sounds terrified. in the comments, she is lambasted for her lack of calm. how is that even fucking helping?
in high school, i taught myself to have a lower voice. i had been recorded when i was genuinely (and righteously) upset; and i hated how my voice sounded on the phone speakers when it was played back. i was defending my mom, and my voice cracked with emotion. it meant i was no longer winning the argument: i was just shrieking about it.
girls meet each other after a long summer and let out a little joyful scream. this usually stops around 12-14, because people will not tolerate this display of affection (as it has the effect of being passingly annoying). something about the fact that little girls can't ever even be annoying. we are trained to examine each part of our lives (even joy) for anything that could make us upsetting and disgusting. they act like teenage girls are breaking into houses and shrieking you awake at 3 in the morning. speaking as a public school educator: trust me, it's not that bad, you can just roll your eyes and move on. it does not compare to the ways boys end up being annoying: slurs in graffiti, purposefully mocking your body, following you after you said no. you know, just boy things.
there's another video of a man who is not allowed to yell in the house, so he snaps his fingers when he's excited about soccer. the comments are full of angry men, talking about how their brother is unfairly caged. let him express himself and this is terrible to do to someone. eventually the couple has to address it in a second video: they are married with a newborn baby. he was trying not to wake the infant up. there is no comment on the fact women are not allowed to yell indoors. or the fact that it could have been really alarming or triggering for his wife. sometimes i wonder if straight men even like women, if they even enjoy being in relationships with them.
for the longest time, i hated roller coasters because it always felt inappropriate and uncomfortable for me to scream. one of my friends called me on it, said it was unusual i'm so unwilling. i had to go to my therapist about it. i don't like to scream because i was not raised in a safe situation, and raising my voice would have brought unsafe attention towards me. even when i am supposed to scream, it feels shameful, guilty. i was not treated kindly, so i lack a basic form of self-protection. this is not a natural response. it is not good that in a situation of high adrenaline - i shut up about it.
something very bad is happening, i think. in between all the beauty standards and the stuff i've already discussed - this one feels new and cruel in a way i can't quite express. yes, it's scary and silencing. but there's something about how direct it is - that so many men agree with the sentiment that women should never yell, even in an emergency - it feels different.
is the word shriek gendered automatically? how about shrill or screech? in self defense class, one of the first things they tell you is to yell, as loud and as shrilly as you can. they say it will feel rude. most women will not do this. you need to practice overcoming the social pressure and just scream.
most women do not cry out, even when it's bad. we do not report it. we walk faster. we do not make a scene. what would be the point of doing anything else? no matter what we do, we don't get taken seriously. it is a joke to them. an instagram caption punchline. we have to present ourselves as silent, beautiful, captivating - "valuable."
a woman is outside watching her kids when someone throws a firecracker at them. she screams and runs towards her children. in the comments, grown men flock together in the thousands: god. women are so annoying.
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at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"
like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.
"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."
... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.
and i'd still keep writing.
i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.
i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley
"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"
and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.
it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.
you create because you're greedy.
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