At first, Eric didn't seem to think anything of what she’d done to Thirteen, relaxed in his chair and stroking her hand. Amber eased into her seat, letting go of tension she hadn't realized she'd built up. So she was still worried about how much he'd accept her manipulations. No matter how many times he repeated that he liked her, it was hard to believe—he couldn’t really know what she was like until he'd seen her in action. Staying with him, letting him find out about her bit by bit, was a huge risk: Amber was growing all the more attached to him. What if Eric decided she was more ruthless than he could accept? If the thought of breaking up had torn her apart a few days ago, what would it do to her now? Amber mirrored his light touches, brushing her fingertips against the base of his hand. Fortunately the story hadn’t put him off.
But as if the sting were in the aftertaste, Eric's strokes slowed down; Amber looked up from their hands, gazing into his face. He seemed troubled. Great. Now that the implications of her actions had sunk in, they didn't sit well with him. Amber bit her lips, ready for the defense. She'd told him she was called CTB for a reason.
Amber steeled herself for accusations of heartlessness, of taking it too far, of following House's poor lead. So she was startled by the question of an entirely different chapter of her history. "Yeah," flew out of her mouth, her surprise delivering an honest answer.
Yeah, people had died because of her. Martin Greaves sprang to mind, that man with the overdue haircut and the worst halitosis she’d had the misfortune to smell. He was first alcoholic she'd treated as a resident. Amber had a low tolerance for substance-abusers; they were a waste of space and time. Why put up with them? So when he'd come in with impending kidney failure, Amber did the minimum to get him up and running again and then promptly discharged him. He died a week later. Sure she felt guilty, but what could she do? He'd been the one to drink himself to death, she hadn’t poured all that booze down his throat. By discharging him quickly she'd saved the hospital precious resources for people who could be saved. Not all patients are made equal.
Because Eric hadn't let go, Amber didn't either. "Yeah," she repeated. "I didn't kill them, it wasn't on purpose-- I just wasn't good enough." Why was her throat tight? She knew it hadn't been her fault. "I've misread scans. There was one woman," Alice Keynes, "I didn't catch her tumor, and by the time she came back, it was too late." Amber tried to maintain eye contact, to show that she wasn't upset, but she had to look away for a second. Take a breath. "Things like that. Or I prescribed too high a dosage, or I should've tried a different treatment method-- but what am I supposed to do?" She asked bitterly. "Should I get hung up over my mistakes and turn in my license? I learned from what I did wrong." Even the alcoholics she'd treated differently, being more lenient towards them (since she’d nearly been fired over discharging Greaves too hastily). “And I never thought I was being haunted.”
no subject
But as if the sting were in the aftertaste, Eric's strokes slowed down; Amber looked up from their hands, gazing into his face. He seemed troubled. Great. Now that the implications of her actions had sunk in, they didn't sit well with him. Amber bit her lips, ready for the defense. She'd told him she was called CTB for a reason.
Amber steeled herself for accusations of heartlessness, of taking it too far, of following House's poor lead. So she was startled by the question of an entirely different chapter of her history. "Yeah," flew out of her mouth, her surprise delivering an honest answer.
Yeah, people had died because of her. Martin Greaves sprang to mind, that man with the overdue haircut and the worst halitosis she’d had the misfortune to smell. He was first alcoholic she'd treated as a resident. Amber had a low tolerance for substance-abusers; they were a waste of space and time. Why put up with them? So when he'd come in with impending kidney failure, Amber did the minimum to get him up and running again and then promptly discharged him. He died a week later. Sure she felt guilty, but what could she do? He'd been the one to drink himself to death, she hadn’t poured all that booze down his throat. By discharging him quickly she'd saved the hospital precious resources for people who could be saved. Not all patients are made equal.
Because Eric hadn't let go, Amber didn't either. "Yeah," she repeated. "I didn't kill them, it wasn't on purpose-- I just wasn't good enough." Why was her throat tight? She knew it hadn't been her fault. "I've misread scans. There was one woman," Alice Keynes, "I didn't catch her tumor, and by the time she came back, it was too late." Amber tried to maintain eye contact, to show that she wasn't upset, but she had to look away for a second. Take a breath. "Things like that. Or I prescribed too high a dosage, or I should've tried a different treatment method-- but what am I supposed to do?" She asked bitterly. "Should I get hung up over my mistakes and turn in my license? I learned from what I did wrong." Even the alcoholics she'd treated differently, being more lenient towards them (since she’d nearly been fired over discharging Greaves too hastily). “And I never thought I was being haunted.”