Winner of  the ❝A Grey Choice❞ contest,

written by LMorthor

The most important thing for a surgeon is not his tools, not his technique in cutting up bodies, or his familiarity with the human anatomy, it is his sound judgement.

When Dylan Vanderbilt, the infamous "Executioner of The Twelve", was wheeled into the ER this afternoon, with increased intracranial pressure due to swollen brain from the car accident along Sunny Boulevard, I knew it is one of those days when I need a better than sound judgement.

"Remind me again why we have to save this motherfucker?" Dr. Chastity Baker, a fellow neurosurgeon attending, asked without concealing the disgust in her eyes. "He killed innocent people with his bare hands, Sam! I had to do a five-hour simultaneous repair with one of his victims as she bled on my table! A pregnant woman who is now dead! And here we are, trying to put this piece of shit back together and save his god-damned life when he doesn't even deserve to live!"

"Primum non nocere. First, do no harm. We swore an oath, Chaz. This is what we are trained to do". I said flatly as the whirring sound of the drill filled the theatre. "Besides, it's not like I can send him away. If I did, that's dereliction of duty". I carefully made small holes on the exposed skull of our patient to relieve the swelling like how we were trained during the first year of internship.

"What if this son-of-a-bitch killed one of yours, would you still save him?" she pressed, and when I didn't answer, she glared at me. "I just don't understand why people like him deserve a second chance when they could've just left him there to die. . . You know. . . every surgery has its risks, something out of the ordinary could suddenly happen, right?" she suggested, leaving heavy words floating in the air. She looked around, trying to convince the staff with her reasoning, appealing to their empathies. Some of them nod in agreement while the rest of us stayed focused.

Part of our profession is like playing god, running and walking around with blades on our hands, conscientiously tiptoeing around eggshells called morals.

"Whether he lives or dies isn't up to us. We just need to do our part. I can manage if this is too hard for you". I said as I carefully removed the subdural clot with a small suction catheter. Dr. Baker is eyeing me fervidly. Any wrong movement could potentially damage the brain for good. "Vitals?" I asked.

"Blood pressure is slowly stabilising. Pulse is good".

Two hours passed and I finished stitching Dylan. I shine a light against his eyes and when I saw his pupils are equal, his lab tests slightly okay, his body responding to emergency treatments, and safe from the brink of death, I knew my job was done. I sometimes wonder what he sees when he looks into the eyes of his victims as he drains the life out of them.

Contempt? Fear?

Is that what makes him tick?

Does he look into their eyes?

I scrubbed out and let the nurses do the aftercare. I head to the lounge to drink some coffee and contemplate the nagging voice inside my head questioning my sound judgement.

Chaz was right. They should've just left him there to die. He killed twelve innocent people on a whim. He doesn't deserve to live. If only there had been some kind of delay in between transporting him to our hospital then I wouldn't be cracking up his skull to save his life when he, Dylan Vanderbilt, had no regard for it.

But I can't let my emotions cloud my judgement.

It isn't up to me if he lives or dies.

'Whatever helps you sleep at night', the voice inside my head mocked.

I stretched my arms and back as I sipped my coffee. I see another incoming patient in the emergency room. An old man with a broken neck and arm. Another patient was wheeled in. I hear the familiar scratching sound of the gurney against the tiled floor.

Fridays are the most interesting part of the week. Hours pass by in a blink of an eye but patients coming and going seemed endless. It is the most relentless of days in a week. Like it doesn't ever want to stop.

I spotted two police officers near the nurses' station. A nurse pointed in my direction. The officers stared at me with an uncomfortable look in their eyes as they went inside the elevator.

'Great. Now, they hate me too for doing my job'.

A minute later, I was summoned to the Chief of Neurosurgery Department's room. I'm sure they would want an update about the patient who's days away from spending the rest of his life in a maximum-security prison.

I was wrong.

They were here for me.

*****

"Dr. Samantha Hall, This is Pete Donovan and Michael Farr from the FBI. They want to speak with you". John Kim, the Chief of Neurosurgery Department, said.

"Anything I can do for you, Detectives?" I asked. They stared at each other, waiting for who would be the first to break the ice. I glanced at the chief who nodded at me as he exited the room giving us space to talk.

"Henry Rivers. Do you know him?" Pete Donovan asked. The name sent shivers down my spine. I have never heard of his name for nearly two years after he was dispatched to Afghanistan.

"Yes. We went to the same Med school in college", I said, leaving the part where we dated for almost five years before he went to Afghanistan. "Why do you ask? Did something happen to him?" I asked the officers.

"His remains were found in a basement this afternoon near Sunny Boulevard. We believe he had a connection to the Dylan Vanderbilt case".

The room felt cold. My head is dizzy and my mouth feels dry. I sat down slowly. My body felt numb.

"That's impossible! He's in Afghanistan! Are you sure it's Henry Rivers!?"

"Mr. Rivers never left the country, Dr. Hall. He was the lead detective and undercover agent in the Dylan Vanderbilt case. We lost contact with him for a year, we never stopped searching till' today. His DNA matched the badly burned body in an abandoned basement registered under the Vanderbilts. Thanks to him, we're so close to finally sacking Dylan Vanderbilt in the big house, unfortunately, he's gone". Pete Donovan said.

"Then the accident happened. That slick motherfucker is buying himself time before we could find evidence of his crimes. It doesn't help that he's also the Chief Justice's nephew. They've been sweeping his deeds under the rugs for years". Pete Donovan said with pure distaste.

"We're here because you were listed as next-of-kin. We will send you Henry's belongings after you sign some papers. We found his phone at the scene. We've recovered some prints and they matched his. The only thing it has is your name and number saved in the phone's contacts", The detective handed it to me, apologetically. "Again, we're very sorry for your loss". Michael Farr offered his condolences.

My whole world shattered.

I just saved the man who murdered my lover.

*****

I stared at him through the glass window of the ICU. He looked so peaceful under anaesthesia. I can't help thinking about a million ways to torture him. I wiped the teardrops from the corner of my eyes. A buzz from the pocket of my lab coat disturbed my thoughts.

It was from Henry's phone.

"I can help you deliver justice to the victims and solve the case on one condition. Dylan Vanderbilt must die before sunrise. One more thing, do not trust anyone, especially the authorities".

I look at the phone and reread the whole thing again and again.

I tried to call the number but it couldn't be reached.

"Who are you and how do you know the owner of this phone?" I texted back.

Then I received another message.

Photos of Dylan Vanderbilt smiling brightly. Like he won something for the very first time in his whole life.

And the dead bodies in the background were his trophies.

Photos of the Chief Justice with the Chief of Police shaking hands in what seemed like a private meeting.

". . . he's also the Chief Justice's nephew. . . They've been sweeping his deeds under the rugs for years. . ."

*****

I went inside my office and put Henry's phone at my table. I typed Dylan Vanderbilt's name on my computer. Nothing much is showing up. If I were an ordinary person from a different city, searching for his name on the web, I wouldn't suspect this person had done horrendous things in life. Nothing about the killings surfaced on the web. There were videos about an assault he did earlier in his life but it had already been taken down.

His profile is downright spotless.

"Hey, Sam! wanna grab some dinner?", Chastity asked as she entered the room. "What are you looking at? Anything interesting?" she asked as she grabbed the screen of my monitor before I could close the window. She saw Dylan Vanderbilt's face on the screen of my computer.

"Evil fucker. You won't find anything on the web or even in the media. His uncle probably already bought their conscience. I still can't believe how no one was able to incarcerate this sick motherfucker!" she exclaimed. "The family representative already came in and talked to the chief about his transfer. Uncle dearest is diligently pulling all the strings for his perfect little fucker. And by the looks of it, I'm a hundred percent sure jail time ain't gonna happen".

"Transfer!? Where and when? Why wasn't I informed about this? I am his doctor!"

"The Capitol. I know! Fucking pricks, right? The Vanderbilt's already reached out to the Chief this afternoon and it's been decided. There's nothing much we can do about it. They're transferring him at midnight".

I stood up and run to the ICU. I have about an hour to contemplate whether I kill Dylan Vanderbilt or let him go.

Is there any other way?

*****

I breathe in the cold air from the hospital's rooftop.

The fact that I am considering it means I have decided. There was a moment of clarity as soon as I thought of flipping a coin.

I got my answer.

I laughed at myself. I had sworn to conserve lives and yet here I am, contemplating whether to kill one.

The classic Trolley problem.

I have to let go of my emotions and decide using logic. Either way, there's no positive outcome in both choices.

Sometimes, some people will be hurt no matter what decision is made. And I already am hurting.

Which decision could cause the least amount of pain?

If Dylan dies, how many will I save from future harm?

If I let him go and he survives, will he do it again?

I remember his icy blue eyes. The photo that was sent to Henry's phone. The dead and their grieving families. The injustice.

Most likely.

If I kill him, I will go against my morals, beliefs, and principles in life. If somebody finds out, I could get fired. My licence would be revoked, and worse, I'll be sent to prison.

Will I be able to handle the consequences?

Which is the lesser evil?

When I ponder on my choices, both are cruel. But I have to do something.

Dylan Vanderbilt already took someone away from me.

I have to choose.

'Whatever helps you sleep at night', a tiny voice whispered in my head.

*****

I discreetly grabbed a syringe and a tiny vial from the crash cart of another patient while I was doing rounds when my phone beeped.

"Code Blue!".

I rushed to the intensive care unit and saw Chastity and the nurses trying to steady Dylan's body as it started to shake violently. His limbs jerked and the vital signs monitor made erratic beeping sounds. The bandages on his head are soaked with blood.

"He's crashing!" Chastity said who was inside with the nurses as I grabbed the crash cart. Then he stopped moving. Chastity and I both looked at each other. She started performing CPR.

I grabbed the epinephrine in the cart and injected the medicine into the IV in his arm followed by a saline flush. Nothing changed. The room was still filled with loud beeping noises. I pushed another dose but there's still no improvement. "V-Tach/ V-Fib!" Chastity shouted. Then the monitor made a steady, dull sound as I pushed the last dose of the medicine.

It's almost midnight. His representative is outside.

Dylan Vanderbilt did not make it.

As if by fate, the gods finally intervened.

*****

Days later, Dylan made it to the headlines. And for the first time, The Vanderbilts' greed and wrongdoings were exposed to the public through social media. It was utter chaos. His uncle, the Chief Justice, had to step down to avoid embarrassment.

His death and his victims had been a sensation for some time. Some people even said that he didn't deserve an easy way out. Some hoped he'd rot in hell.

Meanwhile, I and my medical team had been called for an investigation for possible malpractice. After some time, our names were cleared. The Vanderbilts didn't find any evidence that supports their claim. Everything went back to normal.

I never did find out who sent me the message. When I went back to my office, the phone was gone.

And here I am, inside the theatre, holding a blade in my hand, peering at the deepest and darkest parts of someone's brain.

Playing god.

END