A/N: She's breaking my heart, that Arizona Robbins. Breaking it all into pieces. So to express how I feel, I must share. Mild spoilers for 9.03 "Love the One You're With".
I don't profit from this in any way, I do not own but I do on occasion borrow.
Cristina had lost her shoe. I heard that for a while. Where was her shoe?
The weight on my legs wasn't the crushing force it should have been—probably was—but I only felt a pressure, just a light pressing. I tried to speak but I was crying instead. Why was I crying?
There were screams, like out of some nightmare. I wondered where they were coming from but I realised in the absence of everyone they were coming from me. I was screaming loud, like I couldn't stop—I couldn't.
Lexie was dead and Mark was dying. Should I let him die?
Our fire died—we'd be next. We had run out of matches.
In the morning I stroked Mark's hair and looked down at my foot—the one I could see. I had no shoes, I hadn't noticed. I saw the torn sock, the seams split and cotton ripped to shreds, blue toes poking through that couldn't be mine—they were. There was blood, dried and crusted over the blue, and there was shrapnel plugging a hole in my foot—it went all the way through, a sharp tip like a cold weapon. There was metal in my foot and I couldn't feel it.
At night the jackals came and we stayed still, afraid to breathe. They were fighting, snarling, awful sounds but we knew to keep quiet—they took Lexie.
We started to smell like death, like rotten carcases. I thought maybe we were—were dead, that this was Hell. Heaven wasn't my type of thing but if it existed I'd want to go there instead of here.
I felt the bugs crawl, eating flesh, eating me from inside out. It burned.
They found us and they rushed to save us—what was left of us—but I thought there was no point because we were dead. Or I was.
My shoes had skates because it was easier to let people think I wasn't broken inside.
I woke to find my leg gone. I won't ever find my shoes like Cristina found hers.
Lexie died—good for her, Mark too.
The first homecare nurse had blonde hair and a pretty face—long legs, wore a blue skirt. She talked to me like a child, calm and coaxing as she tried to avoid a tantrum. She was forgetting who she was talking to because I was all gone, nothing left of who I was. Why should I try?
I spat at her, threw a fork. Callie sent the check in the mail.
The next one came and I fired her.
I had no body anymore, just a head and torso, scarred arms and a leg—the other was medical waste somewhere. The blood didn't flow the way it had for so long.
How could I live like this?
Callie shoved me into the shower—I must have weighed nothing to her. She shouted and I shouted and the water was cold and I screamed into her face.
Sofia cried—it came from somewhere but I didn't know where she was. Callie went to her and I slumped—fell in the shower, the pain nothing. It would bruise. I wouldn't care.
I wished the jackals had taken me. I wished I hadn't been afraid to breathe, that I'd made a noise so they'd taken me.
"Please…"—I would have said, if I'd known it would end up like this. "Please."