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within a minute they have Heather strapped down securely before they attempt to move her onto the stretcher. The pool of blood that was underneath her is massive. The amount of blood loss she’s suffered seems to frighten the medics: I am able see it on their faces when they look at each other. They know something but aren’t telling me shit. They maneuver the stretcher carefully through the crowded orchestra pit when I get up and follow them as they move through the dark hallways backstage. One of the medics calls out over his shoulder, “I need a list of medications she is on, as well as any allergies she might have.”
    The question catches me off guard. “I don’t know and I’m the only one she has here,” I spit out quickly, keeping up with them as we move through the hallways and out into the mild April air.
    He doesn’t say anything to me, but they quickly get her into the ambulance. When they are good to go, they instruct me to get in and seated. Once inside, the medic who is seated in the back with me reaches over and slams the door shut as the ambulance sirens start blaring and we take off into the streets of London. My eyes are on her, silently pleading for this to be an atrocious but mere projection of an unimaginable nightmare.

NOAH
    The ER is chaotic.
    The air feels stuffy with an undertone of sanitizer wafting through the dustless corridors, as the nurses try to appear unhurried and serene—they are anything but. There are doctors and nurses everywhere, poking and prodding her, and inserting an IV into her delicate skin. The nurses are supposed to be calming, right? Well, they fucking aren’t. Everyone’s causing a commotion and yelling out words I’ve only heard on television while my girl is lying motionless on this table, causing me to feel dead inside.
    I can’t function; I cannot even manage to replay the scene that unfolded in front of my eyes moments ago. Beside me, there’s a woman firing off questions: “What is her full name? What is her date of birth? Is she allergic to anything? Is she taking any medications?”
    Fuck! Would she just shut up?
    My fucking life is lying lifeless in front of me. The love of my life, my ballerina, is inert and unresponsive, and she’s worried about that shit? I can no longer feel the spark that hummed gloriously between us.
    She’s bleeding.
    Unconscious.
    Ruined.
    My chest is aching; I can’t believe this is happening. I want to bellow and tell everyone to get the hell off of her but at the same time, I want to yell and tell them they aren’t doing enough to help her. I finally hear the woman beside me again, as she ardently shoves herself into my unwilling thoughts.
    “Sir? Sir? Does she have insurance? What is her United States Social Security number? What’s your relationship to her?”
    I’m shaking my head to clear it, rubbing my hands over my face to try to be as much help as I possibly can, but her clipped tone is not aiding me.
    “I’m sorry, what?” I reply as calmly as I can.
    Abruptly I’m being forced from the room as they pull the curtain closed and close the door, shutting me out of the operating room they wheeled my broken ballerina into. “Hey! What’s happening?” I demand.
    The nurse with the infuriating questions and clipboard grabs my bicep as I walk toward the door. “Sir, you can’t go in there right now.”
    I whip around and stare down at her cruelly. “Why can’t I be in there? She needs me.” My voice is laced with annoyance and fear; my veins swell as they wait for me to explode in a rush of ferocity. I need to help her in any way I can.
    “Sir, please calm down. They are doing all they can. Please have a seat and fill out her paperwork. Someone will be with you when they have answers.”
    She leads me to a waiting room not far from where Heather is being worked on, and hands me the clipboard with papers attached to it. I take a seat in the sterile room and watch as the nurse promptly leaves me alone with my