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<3

Name: William "Will" Schultze
Age: 26
Occupation: Doctor
Appearance:

Name: Sandra Courtin

Age: 21

Occupation: Unemployed, currently a full time psych patient, previously an attorney

Current looks:

Previous:

((Do you want to post first, or should I?))

Sandra rolled over in her bed, facing the wall. Her face was slack and her hair tousled. She turned back over to face the window. This was her third day in the psych ward of Malville's memorial hospital. She rolled back to face the wall again. This was all that she had been doing for the last three days, rolling in bed, shifting her view. Sandra had found that if she kept moving, didn't focus on one thing for too long she wouldn't have time. Wouldn't have time to remember the sight of her co-workers splattered across their desks, hearts pumping their blood out of their bodies. Sandra rolled over to the other side, the wall. She liked the wall better. Right now bland white won over the tree line and clouds.

Her entire firm was dead, all of the lawyers that she had worked with and for, gone. Because she wasn't good at her job. Because she'd let a client, and a murder, die in the chair. His son had come back to the office and sprayed it full of holes with his father's gun. Like father like son.

Time to look at the window again.

Dr. Schultze lifted a clipboard into his arms, glancing down the bridge of his nose at the typed text stamped across a pile of bleach-white sheets of paper. His gray-brown irises flickered back and forth across the top page. Sandra Courtin, age 21. The woman was the sole survivor of a grisly murder conducted in her law firm. The record listed her previous occupation as 'attorney'. William had never particularly liked lawyers, on account of the lawsuits that they filed against those in his field--the medical field.

As far as he figured, the lot of them were blood-sucking leeches just like the insurance companies, draining honest men and women of their income and reputations simply because they had made a mistake that any fallible human being could. Of course, summoning up the memory of his doctor's Oath at the end of medical school, three years ago, Will gave a heaving sigh and tucked the clipboard underneath his arm. He would have to provide a proper diagnosis regardless of his sentiments, because the Oath called for the care of all patients to the best of his abilities. Sandra had been in Malville's custody for approximately three days without examination by a qualified doctor.

Will did not know what to expect. Perhaps her psychological trauma would keep her in the psychiatric ward for a few weeks. Or, alternatively, she might be kept in therapy for years. Until he looked at her and determined her symptoms, it would be difficult to say. He'd graduated top of his class, with a focus on anxiety disorders and neurology. Not that William could not pull off Family Practice or surgeries, if needed. One could say he was a Jack-of-All-Trades. And so, straight after medical school, the hospital had snatched him right up thanks to his spotless record and sparkling credentials (various internships and clinical experiences he'd collected over his college years).

The young man slipped on a labcoat. Following the coat, he pulled on a pair of black latex gloves with a loud snap. With another sigh, and an expression, of apathy, he gathered up a stethoscope in his free hand, slinging it over his neck, and headed down the hallway to room 303, where Miss Courtin resided for the time being. Will summoned up a friendly facade and flashing his most dashing smile as he entered.

"Hello, Miss Courtin. My name is Dr. William Thomas Schultze, and I will be examining you today. How are you feeling?"

During one of her rotations between the wall and the window a man appeared at the end of her bedside, all broad smiles and pretty eyes. Once he introduced himself Sandra sighed softly. She really didn't have the time, or nearly the presence of mind, for a doctor right now. At his question she almost laughed, rolling back to the wall. "I feel fine, thank you. Yourself?" She said in a flat tone, lacking inflection or even a sarcastic tone. She was an animal of reflex now. She could go through introductions or pleasant talk, deeper things though were beyond her. Anything could set her back to her a time when she spent three hours huddled under neath the table in the conference room of her firm, where she'd been waiting to start a meeting.

Like for example Dr. Shultze's black gloves. The same as the one's that the gunman had worn. He'd held on to the gun tightly. Once when he'd been so close to her that she could see his black boots, see the blood he had walked through, so think that it remained on the soles of his feet and soaked into the carpet below. At that time she could hear the rubber glove stretching as he readjusted his gun. At that moment she'd been certain that she would be found and killed, just like all of her co-workers.

Seeing those gloves again was a trigger to a panic so deep that Sandra had no immediate response. This man was here to kill her. He'd come back again, he'd gotten out of jail, and he'd found her. He planned to kill her. She didn't roll, didn't move. She had nothing she could do but go back to the means she'd first used to avoid him. She needed to run. Springing from her bed and dodging past the gunman before he could level his gun at her. She didn't see a gun but it must be there, those gloves told her so.

She made it passed the doctor and began sprinting down the hall, her hospital robe flapping madly behind her. She could see it, the end of the hall; freedom, safety. She ran towards the doors, passing the nurses station.

She couldn't go. Her freedom this time would mean the same thing that it had meant before. The death of everyone else. She already had exactly 37 deaths weighing down on her conscious. She didn't need the population of this hospital added to it.

Sandra rushed back to the nurses station, and saw that a large man in scrubs was manning the desk. He took in her wild eyes and frieghtened expression, and immediately began to stand, "Ms. Courtin, how -" He began before being cut off by Sandy.

"The gunman, he's here he's in my room. Everyone's going to die!" She screamed, grabbing the man by the collar, "We need to run!"

William had not had a chance to react to the woman. One second she'd been conversing back to him in a wry tone. The next, her eyes bulged and she'd heaved herself up from her cot in the middle of the room, flying past the doctor and fleeing down the hallway. He'd manage to catch her line of vision before her strong reaction--the black gloves on his hands. So much for being hygienic. Will peeled the gloves off of his hands, discarding them into the trash outside. The patient, Sandra Courtin, made it perfectly clear to him that she harbored serious damage psychologically. As such, he would need to exercise caution when her presence--her triggers appeared numerous and would promote fairly extreme responses.

Slinging his hands deep into the pockets of his lab coat, Will made his way down the hall in the interest of pursuing the flighty woman (albeit slowly). He knew one of the nurses would accost her, being informed of her particular situation and obvious instability. Sure enough, the woman had a male nurse by the collar, shrieking about the killer coming into the hospital, and how everyone needed to run. The doctor would try to soothe her verbally and coax her back into her room. But if that did not work, she would have to be sedated and carried there.

"Miss Courtin, there is no murderer here, I assure you," the doctor said softly, removing his hands from his pockets and holding them up to show he had no black gloves on. After doing so, he paused to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose (they'd slipped), and then carefully edge his way towards her with no sudden movements. He held his hands up again, demonstrating he held no weapons, and finally managing to stand at the reception counter beside her. "You are simply relapsing...Remembering what happened to you at the firm... Your room is perfectly safe, I am here to help you... Now, please... Will you come with me?" Will tried to maintain a calm, even tone. Hopefully it would assist in putting the disturbed patient at ease.

Sandra froze completely when she saw the man that she'd been talking with earlier walk back toward her. What gripped her now was the same fear that had held her still and silent for three hours under her own desk. Now the same fear took hold of her. Why did he keep lying? He was an assassin, not a doctor. She had found him out - there was no need for his lies now.

Sandra's eyes were wild. She had tried to save the other patients in the wards, the nurses, the real doctors. All it had accomplished was getting her that much closer to death at a mad man's hands. She had to abandon them no and run for herself. She bucked hard against the male nurse's grip, struggling silently to free herself from the restraint that was keeping her from freedom.

The man looked down at the frenzied patient with worried but resolved eyes. Patient Courtin was severely traumatized. The protocol for the situation was to sedate her and place her back in her room. Other nurses and doctors had arrived at the scene already, hearkened by the struggle and screams of Sandra Courtin. He tightened his grip on the patient, sure of his grasp on her before he signaled to one of the surrounding nurses that she needed to be sedated. After only a few more moments of wild struggle on her part and a hypodermic needle was sinking into her arm, purging her mind of everything.

Sandra felt the prick of the needle, and her consciousness began to slip in seconds. She looked up into the face of the male nurse, Petey she thought his name was, her betrayer. Her executioner. He didn't believer her, even though she had tried to save them all. "You don't understand..." she mumbled vaguely as the venom coursing through her worked against her mind. She was unable to say it aloud, but one last thought passed through her mind as she slipped into Petey's chest.

We're all going to die.