"Okay, everyone, please gather around. Attention, all staff. This is Dr. Amara Chen, Chief of Emergency Medicine. We are initiating Code Yellow - Mass Casualty Incident protocol. A major vehicular accident has occurred on Highway 17, resulting in a large number of critically injured patients."
There is a beat of silence. Hurried footsteps and hushed voices can be faintly heard in the background.
It's already 2 a.m., and there is a huge accident along Highway 17. According to the news, the vehicles involved in the accident were public vehicles, trucks, motorcycles, and bikes.
"Here we go again." One of my workmates complains in a low voice.
"We anticipate a significant influx of patients within the next hour. All available staff are to report immediately to the Emergency Department. Trauma bays are to be prepared. Surgical teams, anesthesiology, and ICU staff, please prepare for a surge in patient volume."
As the doctor continued to talk. Each one of us pauses slightly for emphasis.
"This is a Level One mass casualty incident. We need every hand on deck. Prioritize the most critically injured patients. Clear communication and efficient triage are paramount. Follow established MCI protocols. Blood bank, please ensure an adequate blood supply is available. For those not directly involved in patient care, please assist with logistics, such as transport, supplies, and family liaison. We will provide further updates as the situation unfolds. Remember, teamwork and clear communication are crucial. Let's work together to provide the best possible care to our patients." As she finishes her announcement.
"Okay, everybody moved, moved!" Utos ng isang doctor.
"Oh, come on! Give me a break!" my colleagues shout, then he moves to his designated area.
I smiled and then moved to assist the doctor. Minutes later, a 31-year-old male with massive hemorrhaging from an accident had a fifty-fifty chance of survival, and everyone was in panic.
"BP dropping fast! 60 over 30! We're losing him! Two units O-negative, NOW! And get me a surgical consult, STAT!" Dr. Evans ordered.
"Already ordered, Doctor! Cross-matching is taking too long - can we bypass it?" I asked.
Dr. Chen, a young resident, frantically works on a patient with a severe leg injury, blood spurting from the wound.
"Tourniquet's maxed out! The bleeding… It's catastrophic! I need more pressure!" Dr. Chen said.
"Femoral artery, completely severed. We're not going to stop this without surgery. Prep for immediate OR transfer! Get a surgical team down here NOW!" He examines the wounds and shouts.
"Trauma Bay One to OR - we need a surgical team immediately! Massive femoral artery bleed! The patient is crashing!" I called for the surgical team on the radio line.
Our team works in a chaotic yet controlled frenzy, administering fluids, monitoring vitals, and preparing for transport. The atmosphere is intense and life-or-death.
The trauma bay is slowly quieting, but the air still hums with the residual energy of the crisis. Surgical instruments gleam under the harsh fluorescent lights, reflecting in the pools of blood still clinging to the polished floor. The metallic tang of blood mixes with the antiseptic, a grim perfume of mortality. Dr. Evans, her scrubs stained crimson, her face ashen, collapses into a chair. Her usually sharp eyes are dulled with exhaustion, dark circles etching shadows under them. I approach her cautiously, my face pale, my usually neat bun slightly askew from hours of frantic work.
It's quiet now, almost eerily so. The frantic energy has subsided, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence. Except for the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor, a constant reminder of the fragility of life.
"Doctor, you need to rest. You've been on your feet for twelve hours straight. You look like you might fall apart." Then I gave her a cup of hot chocolate.
"Just… another one. Another near miss. Another life hanging by a thread."
Her voice was barely a whisper, almost lost in the machine's hum, and then she grabbed the hot chocolate I offered her.
"You saved him, Doctor. That's what matters. You did everything you could. He's stable now." I'm trying to convince her that everything is okay, even though I know it's not true.
"There are others… so many others. And the next one… the next one might not make it. That's the crushing weight of it all."
Her gaze swept across the still-busy trauma bay, her eyes lingering on the faces of her exhausted colleagues and nurses.
I gently place a hand on her arm, my touch a small island of comfort in a sea of chaos. The sounds of the trauma bay - the rhythmic beeping, the hushed whispers, the occasional frantic shout - continue a relentless soundtrack to our lives. She looks at her watch, the time blurring into a meaningless stream of numbers.
"I need to go home. I need to see my kids. To feel something real, something other than this… this relentless pressure. This constant fight against death." Her voice was heavy with weariness.
She rises, her legs unsteady, her steps hesitant. The weight of her work, the near misses, the constant pressure, and the ever-present threat of failure weigh heavily on her as she leaves the trauma bay. I watch her go, feeling the exhaustion myself, the emotional toll of the night settling heavily on my shoulders. Another night, another near miss, another battle fought and almost won. The sounds of life-or-death struggles fade behind her, but the weight of it all remains.
****
The air in the abandoned house hung heavy, thick with a cloying sweetness that clung to Valerie's nostrils like a shroud. It was a sickly blend of damp earth and decaying wood, a scent that spoke of years of neglect and silent decay. The musty odor of aged plaster mingled with the faint, metallic tang of rust from the pipes that snaked through the crumbling walls, creating a nauseating symphony of smells. A hint of something acrid, like burnt sugar, lingered in the air, a reminder of a fire long extinguished, its ghostly presence still clinging to the walls. The air was stagnant as if the house itself were holding its breath, a silent witness to the passage of time and the relentless march of decay.
Furniture overturned, colors bleeding into each other in a nightmarish blur. The air is thick with the scent of stale cigarettes and something acrid, like burnt plastic, a lingering trace of something violent and unresolved. A half-finished painting lies face down on the floor, its colors smeared and distorted, mirroring her internal turmoil, a visual representation of the chaos within her.
"You knew! You knew what he was doing! You were complicit! Don't you dare pretend you're innocent!" Her voice dropped to a near whisper, laced with a chilling calm.
The man throws her against the wall, the impact jarring her. This time, she doesn't immediately rise. She stays on the ground for a moment, her body trembling slightly, a subtle sign of the emotional toll the fight is taking. When she rises, her movements are less fluid and less efficient. She stumbles somewhat, her cold composure beginning to crack.
She coughs in pain.
She grabs a nearby gun. She points it at the Figure, her finger tightening on the trigger. The shot rings out, sharp and brutal, silencing the room. Thalia stands over the Figure, her breathing ragged, the gun still smoking in her hand.
"Hey, hey, it's okay. I'm here; it's just a nightmare, babe." He hugged me tightly and cared for my hair so I could calm down.
The next thing I knew, we were in the kitchen, sitting on the counter-high bar stool, and he gave me a glass of water to drink.
"Thank you." I smiled bitterly.
"Babe, it's just a dream, okay? It's not real, okay?"
"I know, but it's just like for real. Pakiramdam ko nangyari na or mangyayari pa lang siya." Trying my best to hold back my tears.
The man stood and sat beside his girlfriend, who was trying to recall the details of her dream. His hands move to her back, gently rubbing soothing circles. He can feel the rapid beat of her heart against his chest.
"Don't worry, love. Panaginip lang lahat ng iyon."
He gently lifts my chin with his thumb, wiping away a stray tear. His gaze is intense, full of concern and love. He leans down and kisses my forehead, then my eyelids, lingering on each touch. His lips move to the back of my hand, kissing it softly before bringing it to his lips. He holds my hand close to his chest, feeling the warmth slowly returning to my skin.
"Totoo man o hindi. Always remember na andito ako." He smiled, gently caressing both my cheeks.
"Thank you," I said. "Thank you, love. For being here. For… everything." Then, a faint smile touched my lips.
"Always, my love. Always." He pulled me close, and my head nestled against the solid comfort of his chest like a weary bird finding shelter in a storm.