Not At Fault

AUTHOR: Sylvia
SPOILERS: Sorry, none.
ARCHIVE: Please please please email me!
DISCLAIMER: These are not my characters, they belong to NBC and Warner Bros. I wish they were mine, but their not. I'll have to deal with it...
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Victoria, this one's for ya sweetie! Hope ya like!
SUMMARY: What would go through Carter's mind, if Abby hadn't told Mark. If he hadn't gotten help. If he hadn't realized he needed help.

~*~ Not At Fault ~*~

He looked at himself in the mirror, and he couldn't believe what he saw. This wasn't John Truman Carter. He had bloodshot eyes, and big dark circles. Cause: hours without sleep. Sleep never came easy. Maybe he would sleep an hour or two at different times, yet he always woke up with the same nightmare: Lucy was gone. Then as he walked through the doors, it hit him. She really was gone, all his fault. He felt the pain from his back start again. It never escaped. It followed him everywhere he went. He wanted to end it. He wanted peace.

His head was pounding. He couldn't see straight. He leaned into his pocket and pulled out his pills, his one and only saving god. He thrived on it. No one had noticed, he was slowly dying, killing himself. No one cared. Mark asked, but never followed up. He didn't need a therapist. He wasn't insane. He wanted to talk to someone, yet he knew he never could. This pain was all too real, too present, never parting, controlling him. Those voices he heard, saying, telling him it was his fault. He walked into the empty trauma room, looking for more comfort.

A few weeks back, Abby had walked in on him, in this very trauma room. Yet she was so naive. Didn't even notice what had happened. She was so young, she would never understand. He had pondered ending his life, many times. He would have given up his life for Lucy. Now he became worthless. He had no emotions, no life to him. He lied on the bed, playing with an empty syringe. He had heard someone come in.

"Dr. Carter, we need you. Pedestrian versus moving object in about five minutes."

It was Lockhart.

"Be right there."

He didn't want to go. He held on to the syringe like it was his lifeline.

"Hey, Dr. Carter?"

What the hell did she want?

"Are you okay?"

He could tell her. Bare his soul. Maybe the voices would go away, yet he did it again. He lied.

"I'm fine. Just tired. Go."

She left. His head started to pound again. The voices came back. Carter, just do it. No one will miss you. You're worthless. You're a bad doctor, and a murderer. You don't deserve to live. Lucy did. He put the syringe to his wrist. Pricked at a vein. Yet, he couldn't insert it. Not yet. Maybe there was some meaning to his life, then maybe there wasn't. The voices came back. Told him to take action. He felt weak and tired as he finally lied down...

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