Fallen Angel

Chapter 1

Marshall was furious as the minutes and seconds ticked by—fifteen and counting—until the emergency crew finally appeared.  In his highly anxious—borderline hysterical—state, he lashed out as one of the doctors approached him in such a startling manner that the man put up his hands and took a step backwards.  Closing his eyes, he counted to ten, mentally taking a firm hold of all the built-up thoughts of malice towards whoever did this—whoever could do such a hateful, remorseless thing—and burying within the trenches of his soul, in the darkest, deepest parts where he stored everything he couldn’t handle; the very rawest, most base emotions and sensations that he wouldn’t touch—couldn’t for fear of what path they might lead him on.

“What the fuck do you want?” he growled.

“Sir, calm down; would you like to ride in the ambulance with her?”

“Yes!” he screamed.

“Okay, we have to hurry, so come on!”

~*~

“Sir,” one of the monitoring technicians started after traveling five minutes towards the nearest hospital, “I think you need to prepare yourself.”

“For what?” Marshall snarled.

“I don’t think this lady is going to—”

“Don’t even say it!” Marshall warned and pressed the woman’s hand between his larger, rougher ones.  “You’re gonna be just fine,” he cooed.

~*~

Marshall was pacing—and he hated it—in the hospital corridor, just outside the emergency operating room.  His face was streaked with drying tears as he relived the moment he found her—seeing her in such a helpless state; hell, she was thrown on death’s door only to be found by America’s most controversial voice.  He swallowed tightly; his stomach was already boiling with harsh acids—just waiting to rise; he couldn’t turn into a weakling—he felt a nagging sense of responsibility, as if she knew he was there.  He felt an obligation to stay strong, to be something she could count on when she survived this.

When he’d heard about the extensive surgeries and operations she would have to undergo to even have a chance of surviving, he could have sworn his heart had physically hurt; he couldn’t even grasp the possibility that she would die—that she might not get another chance; that whomever attempted to kill her would never be punished.  Just remembering all the injuries the doctor rattled off at him was enough to reengage his anger to new, fevered pitches—it boiled over and blazed inside him.

“Sir?”

Abruptly, the blonde stopped and turned to face a man in a white coat.  “Yeah?”

“The woman you brought in…”

“Is she alive?” he spat.

“Yes, but barely.  She’s going to need a lot of work to have any sort of chance…”

“Do it!”

“Let me walk you through a few things before we rush ahead.  She has a concussion, shattered facial structure in some areas, a broken arm, a stab wound, dislocated shoulder and knee, third degree burns, intense bruising, and some internal bleeding.  This is a lot for anyone—and most people would have died from any three of those.  She is our Jane Doe, so we will leave it up to you whether you wish to give her a more peaceful resting.”

Marshall closed his eyes.

“Please take into consideration the possible psychological effects:  there is strong evidence that she has been raped, and her wounds are obviously the work of torture,” the doctor added.

“What are her chances of surviving and living a normal life?”

“Twenty percent or less.”

“Go ahead with the surgeries.”

The doctor nodded once and disappeared back through the double doors of the operating room.

~*~

His mind was exercising all the possibilities; he felt his knees tremble at some of the scenarios his distressed mind had painted.  A horrifying thought flashed through his mind—what if this had been someone he knew—someone he loved, like his daughter.  He knew that there were sick and violent people, but to be witness to the result of another person’s brutality was harsher, more concrete, and hit him squarely in the gut.

The sight of oozing blood—crimson and fresh—running across such tender flesh had his eyes blazing and his jaw set in hard line.  He couldn’t seem to escape the haunting image of her near-lifeless body scandalized by the hands of a madman.  Marshall sobered instantly as he thought about the woman he’d found—the startling fact that she was identity less.

She truly was Jane Doe—no identification on her person, just a mess of gashes and wounds.  Thinking hard, he couldn’t even recall the color of her hair—he didn’t even remember being able to see anything but thick, trickling plasma...

The only relief he found amongst the realization was that it hadn’t been his Hailie.  His heart hammered in his chest—it wasn’t her, he knew—but he needed to hear her voice…just for the reassurance; it was entirely ridiculous to need that guaranteed, but that didn’t stop him from dialing his home number.

“Hiya,” a cheerful voice answered.

“Hey, baby.”

“Daddy!”

“Yeah, it’s me.  I just—I just wanted to call and say hi.”

He could hear her laughter over the phone.  “Hi.”

“How are you doing?”

“Super!  I’m gettin’ ready to go to Marcy’s for a sleep over.”

“Oh, really?  That sounds like fun!”

“Yep!  It’s gonna be tons and tons and tons of fun.  Okay, Daddy, Mommy’s yelling so I gotta go!  Bye-bye!”

“Bye,” he replied as he heard the phone click.

~*~

Unaware he’d been holding his breath, he took a large gulp of sanitized air—it burned his lungs as they filled suddenly.  He felt a bit calmer after hearing his daughter over the phone—her voice was enough to soothe him, bring his anxiety down a notch, but his temper flared just imagining the worried family or husband…son or daughter waiting for their daughter, their wife, their mother to return home.

It was torturous attempting to comprehend the enormity and the wide range of possible ramifications and circumstances that could occur, would occur, and may have already occurred.

In complete honesty, he couldn’t possibly envision a worse scenario—the only way it could get worse is if it was all for nothing; if she ended up another number, another victim of domestic violence.  Just a damned statistic—he had an overwhelming want to see her open her eyes, survive, to push through everything, and live.

Marshall still felt his gut fluttering, and his heart beating wildly out of control.  He abruptly stopped his pacing and took a seat, only to find his thumb between his teeth.

“Get a hold of yourself, man!” he berated himself.

He hadn’t bitten his nails since the night of Hailie’s birth—he didn’t even know the woman; he couldn’t begin to explain his apprehension or how he felt like getting on his knees and praying for her survival.

What he did know was that he wasn’t going to leave; he would be there—he needed to be there—when she woke up.  If she woke up.

Chapter 2

Author: zines@aol.com

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These stories are for entertainment purposes only.  They are completely fictitious, and the authors mean no harm to EMINEM, his family, friends, or anyone else that may have been depicted as a 'real life' character.  No money was made on the fiction here, either directly or indirectly, i.e. paid advertising. In other words - it's just a bunch of shit we wrote for fun. Please don't take it seriously.