The ER was quiet. Eerily so. The only sound resounding through the room was the monotonous and continued beeping of the tracking machine.
“Sir…We’ve lost her,” one of the nurses looks up and meets the surgeon with stony eyes. The surgeon sighs. Another day, another life. How much more could he take?
“Very well. Time of death, 4:35 PM,” the surgeon says. He looks at the young girl on the operating table. Inside him, something wilts as he goes over her features. It was such an awful waste. Why did the world have to work this way? She couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. Another tired sigh escapes the doctor’s throat.

He changes and drives home. Tonight he was covering for a colleague, and he didn’t need to be there anymore. Besides, it was his night off. As he opens the door to the house and turns on the lights, he is reminded again of the young girl that lost her life in a car accident.

He sits down, sipping Southern Comfort and coke, on the rocks.

Never drink and drive, he thinks.

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