Six Points of Closure

"There's a particular intimacy to being sutured—someone literally sewing your damage back together while you sit perfectly still and pretend you're fine."

Time did strange things behind the curtain.

I couldn't tell if five minutes had passed or twenty. The concussion made temporal awareness slippery, unreliable. Moments stretched and compressed randomly, making the wait feel simultaneously endless and instantaneous. The clock on the wall insisted it was 6:43 PM, but that number meant nothing to my compromised brain.

The department sounds continued their chaotic symphony beyond my curtained sanctuary. Conversations in medical shorthand I couldn't quite decipher. Equipment alarms that medical staff silenced quickly. The squeaking wheels of trolleys being pushed past. Someone crying—a child, I thought, though I couldn't be certain. Someone else coughing with wet, concerning sounds that suggested respiratory distress.

All the ordinary disasters of a Sunday evening, compressed into one building, managed by people whose entire profession centred on crisis intervention.

My hand continued its steady throb beneath Rachel's bandaging. Each pulse brought fresh awareness of damage, of torn flesh imperfectly held together by pressure and gauze. The lidocaine or whatever local anaesthetic she might have applied was clearly wearing off—if she'd applied any at all. Maybe she'd skipped that, knowing I'd need proper suturing soon anyway.

The nausea had settled into persistent low-level queasiness rather than acute threat. Manageable, barely. The kind of sick feeling that made swallowing difficult and breathing require conscious attention but didn't actively threaten to produce humiliating results.

Small mercies.

I should have been thinking about what to tell Claiborne. Should have been rehearsing explanations, preparing responses to inevitable questions, constructing a coherent narrative that would satisfy his concerns without revealing too much truth.

But my brain refused to cooperate. Thoughts kept sliding away before I could fully form them, distracted by pain or physical discomfort or the simple overwhelming nature of trying to think through concussion fog.

The curtain pulled aside with a soft rustle of fabric, admitting a new figure into my small space.

Male, late forties, with short hair and the kind of solid build that suggested manual labour in his past—broad shoulders, capable hands, a certain substance to his frame that came from years of physical work rather than gym attendance. He wore dark blue scrubs and carried himself with quiet confidence, moving into the bay with the easy assurance of someone completely comfortable in this environment.

His face was weathered in ways that suggested outdoor hobbies—sun exposure, wind, the kind of skin that came from spending free time hiking or sailing rather than in climate-controlled spaces. Laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes, suggesting someone who smiled frequently despite working in emergency medicine.

A small name badge pinned to his scrubs read "Jackson Roberts, RN" with some additional credentials underneath that I couldn't quite focus on reading.

"Detective Lahey?" His voice was calm, unhurried, with a faint Tasmanian accent softening the edges of consonants. The kind of voice that immediately suggested competence and steadiness, someone who wouldn't panic regardless of circumstances. "I'm Jackson Roberts, one of the senior nurses. Rachel's asked me to take over your care. Understand you've given yourself a decent injury there."

A decent injury. That was one way to phrase it.

"Something like that," I managed, voice coming out rougher than intended.

Jackson pulled up the small rolling stool Rachel had used earlier, settling himself at eye level—a deliberate choice that I recognised from my own interview training. Hierarchy through positioning, power dynamics adjusted by height differential. Sitting at eye level communicated equality, partnership, respect.

Made the interaction feel less like medical authority treating patient and more like two people collaborating on a problem.

His eyes were kind—genuinely kind, not performing kindness for professional purposes. Grey-blue, steady, assessing without being intrusive. The eyes of someone who'd seen enough suffering to be unshockable but not enough to become callous.

"Rachel's filled me in on the basics," Jackson said, pulling a tablet from the pocket of his scrubs. "But I'd like to hear it from you if that's alright. Talk me through what happened."

The request was phrased as suggestion rather than demand. Giving me the illusion of choice whilst both of us understood that I'd be repeating the story regardless.

I provided the same version I'd given Rachel. Fell during a search of residential premises in Berriedale. Lost my footing. Caught my hand on broken glass from a window. Hit my head on the way down. Simple accident. Unfortunate but unremarkable.

The lie felt more solid the second time through. Like I was beginning to believe it myself, or at least believe I could make others believe it.

Jackson listened without interruption, his expression remaining neutral throughout. When I finished, he nodded slowly, making notes on his tablet with one hand.

"Right. And this search—was it a challenging environment? Poor lighting, unstable surfaces, anything like that?"

The question was standard, appropriate, exactly what medical staff should ask when documenting mechanism of injury. But it also gave me an opening to add details that might make the story more plausible.

"Bit of both," I said, improvising carefully. "Older house, dim lighting in some rooms. I wasn't paying attention to where I was stepping."

Jackson made another note. "And the glass you caught your hand on—window pane, drinking glass, something else?"

"Window. Already broken when we arrived."

"I see." He set the tablet aside, pushing the stool closer to the bed. "Well, let's have a look at what Rachel's done and see where we're at. I'll need to remove her dressing."

He moved to the sink, washing his hands with the same thorough methodology Rachel had employed. The ritual of medical cleanliness, performed so many times it had become automatic. Soap, scrub, rinse, dry, gloves snapped on.

"This is going to be uncomfortable," Jackson warned, returning to my side. "The dressing's absorbed blood and will have adhered to the wound edges. I'll be as gentle as I can, but there's no way to make it pleasant."

"Just do it quickly," I said, bracing myself.

"Quick isn't always better with injuries like this. But I'll be efficient."

He worked with careful deliberation, unwrapping the layers of gauze Rachel had applied. His hands were surprisingly gentle for their size, touch light despite the necessary manipulation. Each layer removed exposed more blood-soaked fabric, more evidence of the damage underneath.

The final layer came away with a sharp sting that made me inhale sharply through my teeth. Fresh blood welled immediately, bright red against torn flesh.

Jackson applied pressure with clean gauze, studying the wound with professional interest whilst maintaining compression. "Rachel was right—this is a proper laceration. Deep, clean edges. You're lucky it's straight rather than jagged. Much easier to close neatly."

Lucky. Everyone kept using that word. I was beginning to hate it.

"Can you tell me if you've had a tetanus shot recently?" Jackson asked, still maintaining pressure whilst checking his tablet with his free hand. "Within the last ten years?"

I tried to remember. Thought back through years of work-related minor injuries, mandatory police medical assessments, the last time someone had asked me that question in a medical context.

"Three years ago, I think. Cut myself on barbed wire at a crime scene."

"Perfect. You're still covered then." He set the tablet aside, using both hands now to examine the wound more carefully. "Right. I'm going to clean this properly before we close it up. There's going to be irrigation—flushing with saline to remove any debris. Then I'll assess whether we need to explore deeper to check for foreign bodies or structural damage."

Foreign bodies. Medical speak for "pieces of glass still embedded in your flesh."

"Rachel already irrigated it," I pointed out.

"She did a preliminary clean, yeah. But before suturing we need to be thorough. Any glass fragments left behind mean infection risk, delayed healing, potential for the wound to break down." Jackson reached for supplies from the cabinet beside the bed, assembling what he needed. "Better to be uncomfortable now than have complications later."

He was right, of course. Professional necessity overrode patient comfort. But that didn't make the prospect less unpleasant.

Jackson worked methodically, setting up a sterile field on my lap with blue paper draping. Bottles of saline solution, multiple gauze packs, a kidney dish to catch runoff, instruments I couldn't quite identify laid out in neat rows.

"I'm going to inject some local anaesthetic first," he explained, producing a syringe and small vial. "Lidocaine. You'll feel a sharp sting as it goes in, then some burning sensation as it takes effect. Should start working within a minute or two."

He swabbed my palm with antiseptic—cold, sharp-smelling, the kind that made you think this is definitely medicine through sheer chemical pungency. Then the needle, approaching my torn flesh with steady purpose.

"Little pinch," Jackson warned, then proceeded to stab directly into injured tissue.

The pain was immediate and intense—sharp, burning, spreading through my palm with liquid fire. Not a little pinch. A substantial, aggressive, thoroughly unpleasant invasion of already traumatised flesh.

I breathed through it, focusing on keeping my hand still despite every instinct screaming to pull away.

"I know," Jackson said sympathetically, depressing the plunger with careful pressure. "Lidocaine hurts going in. But it'll help significantly in a moment. Nearly done."

He withdrew the needle, setting it aside in the sharps container. Applied pressure to the injection site briefly, then sat back.

"Give that a minute to work. Meanwhile, tell me about that head injury. Rachel noted you hit a wall?"

"Yeah."

"Loss of consciousness at all?"

"No."

"Vision changes? Blurring, double vision, dark spots?"

"Just light sensitivity."

"Headache?"

"Yes." Understatement of the evening, but admitting the full intensity felt like weakness.

"Scale of one to ten?"

"Seven." Still lying, still minimising, still trying to maintain some illusion of control through downplaying symptoms.

Jackson's eyebrows rose slightly, skepticism clear. "Seven seems conservative given how you're squinting and the fact that you've gone a bit green around the edges. But we'll go with seven for now."

He tested the anaesthetic's effect, touching my palm lightly with a gloved finger. "Can you feel that?"

"Sort of. Pressure but not pain."

"Perfect. That's what we want." He reached for the saline bottle, positioning the kidney dish beneath my hand. "Right, here we go. This'll be cold and weird but shouldn't hurt. Let me know if you're getting sharp pain rather than just pressure sensation."

The irrigation was indeed cold—shockingly so, making me gasp as fluid hit exposed tissue. Jackson directed the stream, flushing debris from the wound whilst I tried not to watch the pink-tinged water running into the dish.

"Doing well," he murmured, focused on his work. "Just keep that hand still for me."

He repeated the process several times, using what felt like half a bottle of saline to thoroughly clean the laceration. Between irrigations he examined the wound closely, using a small bright light to illuminate the depths, checking for glass fragments or other contamination.

"Can't see any foreign bodies," he said with satisfaction. "Looks clean. Lucky break—sometimes with window glass you get these tiny fragments that are nearly impossible to spot until they cause problems later."

There was that word again. Lucky.

"Right," Jackson continued, reaching for different supplies. "Time for closure. I'll be using interrupted sutures—individual stitches rather than one continuous thread. Gives better control over tension and means if one fails it doesn't compromise the whole repair."

He threaded a curved needle with what looked like dark blue thread—though it was probably some synthetic suture material rather than actual thread.

"You might feel pulling and pressure but shouldn't have significant pain. If you do, speak up immediately. The anaesthetic should be fully working now."

The first stitch was a strange sensation—pressure and tugging, the feeling of needle piercing flesh and thread pulling through, but no actual pain. Just the deeply unsettling awareness that someone was sewing my skin together like fabric, needle and thread reconstructing what violence had torn apart.

Jackson worked with quiet concentration, occasionally pausing to assess his work, adjusting tension, ensuring edges aligned properly. His hands were steady, movements confident.

"Been doing this long?" I asked, needing distraction from the sensation of being sutured.

"Nursing? Twenty years next month. Started in construction actually, worked on building sites around Tasmania. Had a critical incident on site where I was able to provide first aid—realised I was more interested in helping people directly than building structures." He tied off the first stitch, began positioning for the second. "Went back to uni at twenty-eight, did my nursing degree, specialised in emergency care."

"Big career change."

"Best decision I ever made. Though I miss being outdoors sometimes. Emergency nursing means a lot of hours under fluorescent lights." The second stitch went in smoothly, thread pulling edges together with careful precision. "You been in policing long?"

"Seven years. Uniform first, then CIB."

"Criminal Investigation Bureau—that's the detective work, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Interesting job. Challenging, I imagine. Probably see a lot of the harder side of human nature." Third stitch, positioned carefully to distribute tension. "Must take a toll sometimes."

The observation was casual, conversational. But there was weight underneath, suggestion that he understood demanding work, the emotional cost of professions that dealt with suffering and crisis.

"Some days are harder than others," I said carefully, the admission feeling safer than complete denial.

"I expect so." Jackson tied off the third stitch, examined his work critically. "Halfway there. You're doing brilliantly—some patients find this quite distressing. You're very calm."

Calm. Right. If only he knew how much effort maintaining that calm required, how close I was to the edge of composure.

The fourth stitch went in with the same careful precision. Jackson worked in companionable silence for a moment before speaking again.

"Rachel mentioned your partner was present when you were injured?"

The question was casual enough, but I felt myself tense fractionally. "Yeah. Karl. My work partner."

"He wasn't hurt in the fall?"

"No."

"That's good." Fifth stitch, nearly done. "Must have been concerning for him though. Seeing his partner injured."

I didn't respond immediately, uncertain what Jackson was fishing for. Whether this was genuine conversation or subtle interrogation, concern or assessment.

"I imagine he wanted to come to hospital with you?" Jackson continued, voice still casual. "But you came alone?"

"He had other things to handle."

"Right." Jackson's tone suggested he found that answer interesting but wasn't going to push. "Well, last stitch coming. Then I'll dress this properly and we'll get Dr. Montgomery to assess that head injury."

The final suture completed the closure, pulling torn edges together into a neat line. Jackson tied it off, trimmed the excess thread, and then sat back to assess his work.

"There we go. Six stitches total, nicely aligned. Should heal well if you follow aftercare instructions." He began cleaning around the wound, removing blood and irrigation fluid with gentle swabs. "Keep it clean and dry. No soaking it—quick showers are fine but keep your hand out of the spray if possible. Watch for signs of infection—increasing pain, redness spreading beyond the immediate area, warmth, discharge, fever. Any of those, you come straight back or see your GP."

"Understood."

"Stitches come out in ten days. You can have that done here or at your regular doctor's surgery—just needs someone qualified to remove them and check healing." Jackson began applying fresh dressing, wrapping gauze around my palm. "I'm going to give you a proper bandage rather than just gauze. More support, better protection."

He worked in silence for a moment, securing the bandaging with medical tape and what looked like an elastic wrap for additional stability. When he finished, my hand looked professionally mummified—clean, neat, properly protected.

"Right. That's you sorted for the laceration." Jackson peeled off his gloves, disposing of them and all the contaminated materials in appropriate waste bins. "Next step is neurological assessment. Dr. Montgomery's our Head of Emergency—he'll want to have a proper look at that head injury, make sure there's no concerning signs."

He washed his hands again, drying them on paper towels whilst making notes on his tablet. "I'll let him know you're ready. Shouldn't be long—he prioritises head injuries given the potential for complications."

Jackson paused at the curtain, one hand holding the fabric aside whilst he looked back at me. His expression was kind but carried something underneath—awareness, perhaps. Recognition that the story I'd told didn't quite add up, that the pieces didn't fit together as neatly as I'd presented them.

"Detective... can I give you some unsolicited advice?"

"Sure."

"I've been working Emergency for sixteen years. Seen a lot of police officers come through after difficult calls. After situations where things went wrong, where training wasn't enough, where the job cost more than anyone outside the profession understands." He paused, choosing words carefully. "You don't have to have all the answers right now. Don't have to present perfect composure or maintain complete control. Sometimes it's okay to just be someone who got hurt and needs help."

"I'm fine," I said automatically, the lie smooth with practice.

Jackson's expression suggested he knew exactly how fine I wasn't. But he just nodded, offered a small smile that managed to be both sympathetic and slightly sad.

"Right. Well, the offer stands. If you need anything—anything at all—you just press that call button." He gestured to the control unit attached to the bed rail. "Someone will be here immediately."

Then he was gone, curtain swishing closed behind him, leaving me alone with my freshly sutured hand and the growing awareness that people kept seeing through my carefully constructed fiction.

I sat on the trolley-bed, cradling my bandaged hand, listening to Jackson's footsteps fade into the department's ambient noise. Voices conferring beyond the curtain. Equipment being moved. Someone laughing at something—a moment of levity in the midst of crisis, the kind of humour that medical staff developed as survival mechanism.

My palm was numb now, anaesthetic working fully. But I could feel the pull of stitches when I accidentally moved my fingers, the tight sensation of skin held together by thread. Physical proof of injury, of violence, of the moment everything had gone wrong.

Six stitches. That was the quantification of what Karl had done. Six points where thread pierced flesh, holding together damage that should never have occurred.

But it wasn't just my hand. Wasn't just physical injury that required closure.

Something between Karl and me had torn that couldn't be sutured back together. Something fundamental had fractured, leaving gaps that couldn't be bridged with thread and good intentions.

Jackson had seen it. Had recognised that something about my story didn't align with observed reality, that the pieces I'd presented didn't form a coherent whole.

How many others would notice? How long could I maintain the fiction before someone pushed hard enough to expose the truth underneath?

The curtain rustled in air currents from the ventilation system. My head continued its steady throb, concussion symptoms refusing to be ignored despite my attempts to minimise them. Nausea surged periodically, requiring careful breathing to control.

And Claiborne was coming. Would arrive any moment wanting explanations, reading between lines I'd tried to draw too firmly.

I closed my eyes against the fluorescent glare, trying to breathe through the nausea, trying to prepare myself for the next phase of this nightmare.

Dr. Montgomery would assess my head injury. Would ask questions about the mechanism of injury, about symptoms, about circumstances. Would probably notice the same inconsistencies Jackson had spotted.

And then Claiborne would arrive and the real interrogation would begin.

The lie was documented now. Written in Rachel's intake notes and Jackson's treatment records. Codified, systematised, made official through institutional processes.

But lies written in medical charts didn't make them true. Just made them harder to retract without consequences.

I sat behind the curtain in Bay 4, waiting for the next person to see through me, hoping I'd find better answers before the questions became unavoidable.