Sterile Truths

"Lies taste different when you write them in blood—metallic and wrong, like medicine that's supposed to heal but only makes you sicker."

The remainder of the drive to the Royal Hobart Hospital passed in a blur of streetlights and adrenaline crash.

My hands gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity—the uninjured one doing most of the work whilst the other throbbed with each heartbeat, blood soaking through the makeshift bandage I'd fashioned from my sleeve. The fabric had gone from grey to rust-brown, sticky and uncomfortable against my palm. Each pulse sent fresh warmth spreading through the cotton, a steady reminder that I was still bleeding, that the damage Karl had done wasn't just emotional.

I should have called for assistance. Should have radioed in the incident, requested backup, followed protocol for an officer-involved injury sustained in the field. But making that call would have meant explanations I wasn't ready to give, questions I didn't know how to answer, setting in motion a chain of consequences I couldn't yet face.

The institutional machinery would grind into motion the moment I spoke those words into the radio. Reports would be filed. Supervisors would be notified. Internal Affairs would start asking why my partner had assaulted me during what should have been a routine residential check.

So I drove myself instead, alone, through Hobart's darkening streets whilst my head throbbed with concerning intensity and nausea threatened with each turn. The city passed by in fragmented impressions—traffic lights bleeding into halos, pedestrians reduced to shadows, familiar landmarks rendered strange by pain and shock.

My vision kept doing odd things at the periphery. Not quite blurring, but softening, like looking through gauze. Concussion symptoms, probably. The rational part of my brain—the detective part that could assess injuries objectively when they belonged to other people—recognised I was in no state to be driving.

But the alternative was worse. Was admitting vulnerability, accepting help, surrendering control of a situation that had already spiralled so far beyond my grasp.

The hospital emerged from the twilight like a beacon—all lit windows and utilitarian architecture, the kind of building that had witnessed every permutation of human suffering and somehow remained standing. Ugly in that particular way institutional buildings achieved, prioritising function over aesthetics, durability over beauty.

I'd been here before, of course. Many times. Visiting injured witnesses who couldn't or wouldn't come to the station. Interviewing assault victims still receiving treatment. Following up on cases that ended in these corridors—suspicious deaths, violent crimes, the overlap between law enforcement and emergency medicine.

Never imagined I'd be the patient. Never pictured myself on the receiving end of triage and treatment, transformed from investigator to subject, from observer to observed.

The parking area was busy despite the evening hour—emergency departments never really slept, just experienced fluctuations in chaos. I pulled into the bay directly in front of the entrance, abandoning the unmarked police car in a space clearly marked for ambulances only. Big red letters, impossible to miss. The kind of violation that would normally earn a stern lecture about emergency access and patient safety.

Someone would complain. Would ticket it or have it towed. Would add yet another small disaster to the accumulating pile.

I couldn't bring myself to care.

My hands fumbled with the seatbelt, fingers clumsy with shock and blood loss. The simple mechanism suddenly felt complex, requiring concentration I couldn't quite muster. Finally it released with a click that seemed unnaturally loud, and I pushed the door open with my shoulder.

The evening air hit with unexpected force—cooler than I'd expected, carrying the salt-tang smell from the Derwent River mixed with car exhaust and something floral from the landscaping. Real air after the enclosed staleness of the car, shocking my system into slightly better awareness.

Standing required conscious effort. My legs felt distant, disconnected, like they belonged to someone else and I was just borrowing them. The ground tilted slightly when I put weight on both feet, forcing me to grip the door frame until equilibrium returned.

Get it together, Lahey.

I straightened with deliberate care, testing my balance before releasing my hold on the car. The world stayed mostly level. Good enough.

The automatic doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss as I approached, admitting me into the bright, sterile world of the Emergency Department. Fluorescent lighting assaulted eyes already sensitive from concussion, making me squint against the glare like some creature dragged from comfortable darkness into hostile illumination.

Too bright. Everything too bright, too sharp, too hard-edged.

The familiar smell hit immediately—that distinctive hospital cocktail of antiseptic and floor cleaner and something underneath that was unmistakably institutional. The scent of thousands of people passing through crisis, of bodily fluids imperfectly cleaned, of fear and pain and desperate hope all compressed into recycled air.

I'd smelled it dozens of times whilst working cases. Had never noticed how overwhelming it was, how it coated your throat and sinuses, making you taste it as much as smell it.

The waiting room stretched before me—standard institutional design, chairs bolted to the floor in rows, magazine rack filled with outdated publications, television mounted high on the wall playing evening news with subtitles. Moderately full for a Sunday evening, which probably meant busy by normal standards, quiet by Saturday night metrics.

A young mother occupied the seats near the children's play area, holding a feverish toddler who whimpered against her shoulder. The child's cheeks were flushed, small body limp with that particular exhausted misery that came from sustained fever. The mother looked haggard, worried, the kind of bone-deep parental anxiety that came from watching your child suffer and being unable to fix it.

An elderly man sat hunched in a wheelchair near the triage desk, oxygen tubes snaking from a portable tank to his nostrils. His breathing was laboured, wet-sounding, each inhalation accompanied by a rattling cough that shook his thin frame. Pneumonia, probably. Or COPD exacerbation. The kind of respiratory distress that sent elderly patients to Emergency with depressing regularity.

A tradie occupied three seats near the back, his right arm cradled carefully against his chest, face grey with pain. Workplace injury, judging by his hi-vis vest and steel-capped boots still caked with what looked like construction site mud. Probably a fall or equipment accident. Possibly a fracture requiring orthopaedic intervention.

A teenager slumped in the corner, face pale green, bucket positioned strategically at his feet. His mates flanked him—two boys trying to project casual concern whilst clearly worried about their friend. Alcohol poisoning, most likely. Sunday Funday gone wrong, youthful invincibility meeting biological reality.

All the ordinary emergencies. All the predictable disasters that filled Emergency Departments every evening across the country.

And then me—a detective with injuries I couldn't adequately explain, blood dripping steadily onto their floor from a hand wrapped in grey fabric that had definitely seen better days. Creating a trail as I walked, small drops marking my passage like grotesque breadcrumbs.

Professional. Really projecting competence and control.

The triage desk stood directly ahead—a fortress of computers and paperwork and laminated instruction sheets, staffed by a nurse who looked up from her computer as I approached. Mid-forties, dark hair pulled back in a severely practical bun that suggested zero tolerance for nonsense, glasses perched on her nose. Her scrubs were navy blue with some kind of printed pattern—cats, I realised. Cartoon cats in various poses.

Somehow the cheerful felines made her seem less intimidating. Made her approachable despite the professional efficiency radiating from every gesture.

Her name badge read "Rachel Thomson, RN" in bold letters, with smaller text underneath indicating "Triage Nurse" and some kind of certification number I couldn't quite focus on.

Rachel took one look at my hand, at the blood, at whatever my face was communicating, and her expression shifted from routine assessment to focused attention. The transformation was immediate, professional, a mental gear-change I recognised from my own work when a situation suddenly escalated from ordinary to urgent.

"Right," she said briskly, standing immediately and coming around the desk. "Let's get you sorted. Can you walk alright?"

"I'm fine," I said automatically, the lie coming easier than truth because truth required explanations I couldn't give. "Just need some stitches."

Even to my own ears the words sounded wrong—too casual, too dismissive, completely at odds with the blood currently dripping onto hospital linoleum and the concussion symptoms making the fluorescent lights feel like knives through my retinas.

Rachel's eyebrows rose fractionally, skepticism clear in her expression. She'd obviously heard enough injured people claim to be "fine" to recognise the word as meaningless noise rather than actual medical assessment.

"And I'll need some information first," she said firmly, one hand hovering near my elbow without quite touching—ready to assist if I wobbled, professionally careful about respecting personal space whilst remaining prepared to intervene. "Come with me."

She guided me past the waiting room, past the questioning looks from other patients who'd clocked my police identification visible on my belt, through security doors that required a swipe card Rachel produced from her pocket. The lock disengaged with a heavy click, and we passed from public space into the controlled chaos of the Emergency Department proper.

The noise level increased immediately. Curtained bays lined both walls, some closed for privacy, others open to reveal patients in various states of treatment. Medical staff moved between spaces—nurses charting on mobile computers, doctors consulting over tablets, orderlies transporting equipment or patients, everyone following invisible traffic patterns that prevented collision despite the confined space.

Someone was crying behind a closed curtain. A phone rang insistently at the nurses' station. An alarm beeped from monitoring equipment, quickly silenced by attending staff. A doctor called for assistance with a procedure, voice calm despite the urgency of the request.

The organised chaos was oddly comforting. At least someone here knew what they were doing, had systems and protocols and training that made sense of suffering. Had answers instead of just accumulating questions.

Rachel settled me into Bay 4, pulling aside the curtain to reveal a space that was simultaneously clinical and strangely intimate. Everything you'd expect from medical television—trolley-bed with adjustable positions, monitoring equipment mounted on the wall, a sink with elaborate faucet controls, supply cabinets with clear labels, sharps disposal container, oxygen ports, suction equipment.

But smaller than it looked on screen. More confined. The kind of space designed for efficiency rather than comfort, for rapid intervention rather than extended occupation.

"Up you get," Rachel instructed, patting the bed with a gesture that was somehow both perfunctory and kind.

I hauled myself onto it with more difficulty than I wanted to admit, using my uninjured hand to grip the metal rail whilst my legs figured out how to coordinate the movement. The effort sent fresh spikes of pain through my head—sharp enough to make my vision grey at the edges, nausea surging with enough intensity that I had to close my eyes and breathe carefully through my nose.

Don't vomit. Whatever else happens, do not vomit.

"Dizzy?" Rachel asked, already reaching for a blood pressure cuff from a nearby hook. The question was rhetorical—she'd obviously recognised the symptoms in my face and posture.

"Bit," I managed, keeping my eyes closed against the too-bright overhead lighting.

"Hit your head?"

"Yeah."

"Loss of consciousness?"

"No." That at least was true, completely accurate without requiring elaboration. I'd been painfully, horrifically conscious for all of it. Had watched Karl's breakdown with perfect clarity, had felt every moment of being shoved into the wall, had registered the exact instant my palm met broken glass.

Consciousness hadn't been my problem. Lack of consciousness would have been mercy.

Rachel wrapped the cuff around my upper arm, the Velcro loud in the enclosed space.

"On a scale of one to ten, how's your pain?"

The question required calculation. My hand throbbed with steady intensity—six, maybe seven out of ten, sharp enough to interfere with thought but not quite incapacitating. My head pulsed with each heartbeat—solid eight, the kind of pain that made light and sound physically painful, that suggested my brain was trying to escape my skull through sheer force of swelling.

But admitting eight felt like weakness. Like losing control of the narrative I was trying to maintain.

"Six," I said, the lie smooth because I'd told it before. Every cop understated pain. Was trained to minimise symptoms, to function through injury, to keep working until the job was done regardless of personal cost.

The cuff tightened around my arm—pressure building until it became uncomfortable, held for several seconds that felt longer, then released with a mechanical sigh. The machine beeped with cheerful indifference, displaying numbers Rachel studied with professional interest.

She frowned slightly at the reading, making a small note on the tablet she'd produced from her pocket. "Blood pressure's elevated. Not surprising given the circumstances—injury and stress will do that. We'll keep an eye on it."

She reached for a thermometer next, removing it from sterile packaging with a quick tear. "Under your tongue."

I complied, sitting still whilst she took my temperature, checked my pulse with two fingers pressed to my wrist, made more notes on her tablet. The routine medical assessment felt surreal given what had preceded it—Karl's breakdown, the violence, the strange house with its missing occupants and Gladys’s inexplicable behaviour, the drive here through streets I barely remembered navigating.

All of that compressed into medical notation. Vital signs reduced to numbers. Chief complaints categorised and prioritised.

The thermometer beeped. Rachel removed it, checked the reading, made another note. "Slightly elevated. Again, not unusual post-injury."

She set the equipment aside, pulled up a small rolling stool, settled herself at eye level—a deliberate choice that made the interaction feel less hierarchical, more collaborative. Her expression shifted slightly, becoming more serious without losing the underlying kindness.

"Right," she said, voice gentle but firm. "I need to get some details for the record. This is the boring bit, but it's important. Name?"

"Sarah Lahey."

"Date of birth?"

I provided it automatically, rattling off numbers I'd given to bureaucratic systems countless times.

"Address?"

That too. The mundane response to standard questions, the kind of information that required no thought to produce.

"Occupation?"

"Detective. Tasmania Police."

Rachel's pen paused fractionally against the tablet screen—barely perceptible hesitation, but present. Something shifted in her expression—not quite wariness, but a recalibration of approach. A subtle change in how she was processing the situation.

Police as patients brought complications. Mandatory reporting requirements. Potential WorkCover implications. Questions about whether injuries were work-related and therefore subject to different protocols. The intersection of medical treatment and institutional bureaucracy.

"And you're currently on duty?" Rachel asked, eyes flicking to my clothes—the weapon on my belt and ID visible at my waist answering for me.

"Sort of. Following up on an investigation."

"I see." She made a note. "And this injury occurred..."

She trailed off, waiting for me to fill the blank. Watching me with an expression that suggested professional neutrality but probably concealed quite sharp assessment.

This was the moment. The decision point that would determine what story became official record.

Truth: My partner suffered some kind of psychotic break, shoved me hard enough to crack my skull against a wall, and I caught my hand on broken glass from a window that had been shattered before we arrived, presumably. He was convinced a missing person was present, hidden in garbage bags, and became violent when reality refused to conform to his delusion.

Or fiction: I fell during a routine search of residential premises. Unfortunate accident. Clumsy moment. Nothing unusual to report. The kind of minor injury that happened sometimes in the field, unremarkable and easily explained.

Truth meant Karl facing formal investigation. Meant Internal Affairs involvement, psychological evaluation, possible suspension or termination. Meant destroying his career over a single incident, one moment of lost control.

Fiction meant protecting him. Meant lying in official records, compromising my integrity, setting precedent that assault could be concealed if you just found the right words.

I'd already decided, really. Had made the choice when I drove here alone instead of calling it in. Had committed to the lie the moment I walked through these doors with a story half-formed in my mind.

"During a search," I said carefully, each word feeling weighted with consequences I couldn't yet fully calculate. "Residential premises in Berriedale. I lost my footing, caught my hand on broken glass from a window."

The lie tasted wrong in my mouth. Foreign. Like speaking words in a language I'd learned but never quite mastered, pronunciation technically correct but lacking native fluency.

Rachel's pen moved across the tablet screen, recording fiction that would become official fact. Each keystroke cementing the story, making it real through documentation. "And the head injury?"

"Hit a wall on the way down." That at least was literally true, if stripped of all meaningful context. I had hit a wall. Just not through my own clumsiness.

She made another note, expression remaining professionally neutral. But something in her eyes suggested she was processing more than just my words. Reading subtext in my tone, noting inconsistencies between story and injury pattern, cataloguing details that didn't quite align.

"Anyone else injured during this search?" The question was routine, part of standard assessment protocol. But it carried implications neither of us acknowledged directly.

"No."

"Were you alone?"

Casual inquiry. Standard follow-up. Establishing scene context for medical records. Nothing unusual about asking.

Except everything about the question felt weighted, significant, like it mattered more than routine documentation justified.

"My partner was present. He's fine." The words came out clipped, defensive despite my attempts at neutral delivery.

Rachel made another note, pen scratching against the tablet screen with a soft electronic whisper. "Right. Well, let's get you sorted properly."

She stood, moving to the sink. Twisted taps I couldn't quite follow the logic of, producing water that she tested with one hand before nodding satisfaction. Soap from the dispenser, methodical scrubbing up to her elbows, paper towels to dry, gloves snapped on with decisive movements.

The ritual of medical preparation, as familiar and formal as anything in law enforcement. The procedures that transformed ordinary humans into professional caregivers, the barriers between person and patient.

"I'll need to remove that..." She gestured at my hand, at the blood-soaked sleeve fabric wrapped around my palm. "Is that part of your shirt?"

"Yeah." My work shirt, actually. Now comprehensively ruined, blood-stained beyond any hope of salvaging. Probably should have grabbed something else from the house to use as bandaging, but conscious thought hadn't been particularly functional at the time.

"Clever improvisation under pressure," Rachel said, tone suggesting genuine approval. "Though not ideal for keeping wounds clean. Let's see what we're dealing with."

She pulled a small stool closer to the bed, positioned my hand on a sterile pad she'd placed across my lap. Her touch was gentle despite the clinical nature of the examination, fingers careful as they began working at the fabric.

"This might sting a bit. The cloth's adhered to the wound with dried blood. I'll go slowly."

That turned out to be a significant understatement.

Rachel worked carefully, peeling away fabric that had essentially become part of the injury. Each millimetre of progress sent fresh agony through my palm—sharp, immediate, the kind of pain that made breathing difficult and thinking impossible. Nerves that had gone partially numb from trauma suddenly remembering their function, screaming protest at the disturbance.

I focused on breathing. On keeping my hand still despite every instinct demanding I pull away. On not making sounds that would communicate exactly how much this hurt.

"Sorry," Rachel murmured, genuine sympathy in her voice. "I know this is uncomfortable. Nearly there."

Uncomfortable. Right. That was one word for it.

The final section came away with a sensation like tearing, bringing fresh blood welling from the wound—bright red, worryingly profuse. Rachel immediately applied pressure with clean gauze, stanching the renewed flow.

"There we go. Let's have a proper look now."

She examined the wound with professional detachment, turning my hand slightly to catch different angles in the overhead light. Her expression remained neutral, but I could see her cataloguing details—depth, edges, location, proximity to important structures.

"Deep laceration," she observed clinically, voice stripped of emotion in that particular way medical professionals achieved when discussing injuries. "Clean edges, which is good for healing. Location's concerning though—you've come quite close to some important structures in the palm. Tendons, nerves, blood vessels all run through here."

She probed gently around the wound's edges, watching my face for reactions. "Can you make a fist for me?"

I tried. My fingers barely curled before pain flared white-hot, forcing me to stop. Nerves definitely affected, sensation clearly compromised.

"Right. Don't try that again—you'll just cause more damage." Rachel released my hand carefully, maintaining pressure on the wound whilst she assessed. "This needs proper closure. Six stitches minimum, possibly more depending on what the doctor finds when they properly explore it. I'll get you cleaned up and then you'll see someone for suturing."

She reached for supplies from the cabinet beside the bed, assembling what she needed with efficient movements. Saline solution in a bottle, more gauze, a kidney dish to catch runoff, sterile gloves to replace the ones now contaminated with my blood.

"I'm going to irrigate this—flush out any debris and get a better look at the damage. It'll be cold and probably uncomfortable, but it's important for preventing infection."

The saline was indeed cold—shockingly so, making me gasp as it hit exposed flesh. Rachel directed the stream carefully, flushing away blood and debris, cleaning the wound whilst I focused on not pulling away from the sensation.

Pink-tinged water ran into the kidney dish, carrying with it the physical evidence of what had happened. Glass fragments tiny enough to be nearly invisible, tissue debris, contamination from the floor where I'd fallen. All of it spiralling down and away, leaving the injury clean but no less painful.

"There," Rachel said with satisfaction, examining her work. "Much better. I can see the full extent now—definitely needs suturing, but no obvious tendon damage from what I can assess. Doctor will confirm."

She applied fresh gauze. Not too tight to restrict circulation, not too loose to allow continued bleeding. The perfect balance that came from doing this countless times.

"I'm going to bandage this temporarily to keep you from bleeding everywhere whilst you wait. We'll prioritise you—lacerations and head injuries get moved up the queue—but there are a few people ahead of you who came in by ambulance. Shouldn't be more than twenty minutes."

Twenty minutes felt simultaneously too long and not long enough. Too long to sit here hurting, but not enough time to prepare for what came next.

Rachel made notes on her tablet whilst I sat in silence, trying to organise thoughts that refused to cooperate. The adrenaline that had carried me here was beginning to ebb, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that made everything feel distant, unreal.

"Right," Rachel said finally, setting the tablet aside. "There's one more thing I need to inform you about. Hospital policy for any police officer treated for work-related injuries—we notify your supervisor. It's automatic, non-negotiable. Already done, actually. Call went out when your name came up in the system."

My stomach dropped so suddenly it felt like falling. "What?"

"Your emergency contact is listed as Charlie Claiborne, Detective Sergeant. He's been notified that you're here receiving treatment for injuries sustained during duty. Standard protocol."

Of course. Of course there was protocol. Of course the hospital had systems for exactly this situation, bureaucratic machinery that engaged automatically when certain conditions were met.

I'd just been too shocked and exhausted and concussed to think through the institutional response my presence would trigger.

Claiborne knew. Was probably already on his way, would arrive wanting explanations I wasn't prepared to give. Would see through whatever story I tried to maintain because Charlie Claiborne hadn't become Detective Sergeant by missing obvious lies.

"I..." I started, then stopped. What could I say? Could I claim it was a mistake, that the injury wasn't work-related after all? Too late—the story was already in the system, categorised and filed.

"Is that a problem?" Rachel asked, concern evident in her voice. Not judgment—genuine worry about whether this notification had created complications I wasn't ready to handle.

"No," I lied, the word automatic. "No, it's fine."

It wasn't fine. Nothing about this situation was fine. But what alternative did I have? Couldn't undo the notification, couldn't stop Claiborne from coming, couldn't control what happened next.

Could only wait for consequences to arrive.

Rachel studied me for a moment, expression unreadable. "Detective... Sarah. I've been doing this job for twenty years. Seen a lot of police officers come through these doors with injuries they don't want to explain properly. I'm not going to push, not going to make assumptions. That's not my job."

She leaned forward slightly, voice dropping. "But my job is to make sure you're safe and getting appropriate treatment. If there's anything about your situation that you need help with—anything at all—there are resources. People who can help."

The kindness in her voice nearly undid me. Made the careful control I'd been maintaining feel suddenly fragile, threatened by simple compassion.

"I'm okay," I managed, throat tight. "Really. Just... an accident."

Rachel nodded slowly, clearly not believing me but respecting my right to maintain the fiction. "Alright. If that changes, if you want to talk to anyone, you just let me know. No judgment, no pressure."

She stood, collecting her supplies, disposing of contaminated materials in appropriate bins. "I'll check on you in a bit. Try to rest if you can—I know waiting is the worst part, but your body needs stillness right now."

Then she was gone, pulling the curtain closed behind her with a soft swish of fabric, leaving me alone in the small curtained space with my injuries and my lies and the certain knowledge that Claiborne was coming.

I sat on the trolley-bed, cradling my bandaged hand against my chest, listening to the sounds of the Emergency Department beyond my temporary sanctuary. Voices conferring in medical shorthand. Monitoring equipment beeping with various rhythms. Someone moaning in pain nearby. The metallic rattle of a trolley being wheeled past.

The ordinary soundtrack of suffering, of bodies failing and being repaired, of the constant work of keeping people alive.

My hand throbbed beneath its fresh bandaging—a steady pulse that kept time with my heartbeat, reminding me with each beat that I was hurt, that Karl had hurt me, that everything had changed in ways I couldn't yet fully process.

I needed to figure out what I was going to tell Claiborne. Needed to decide how much truth to admit, what details to include or omit, how to frame what had happened in ways that protected Karl without completely compromising my integrity.

But thinking was difficult. Organising thoughts felt like trying to herd cats—every time I got close to coherent planning, something would slip away, distracted by pain or nausea or the sheer overwhelming nature of the situation.

Karl had assaulted me. Had shoved me hard enough to cause concussion and lacerations requiring sutures. Had been so consumed by whatever delusion gripped him that he'd lost all awareness of my presence until after the damage was done.

And I'd lied about it. Was continuing to lie about it. Had created an official fiction that would follow us both, that would shape how the incident was understood and processed.

Protecting him or protecting myself? I wasn't entirely sure anymore.

The curtain rustled slightly in air currents from the department's ventilation system. Shadows moved beyond the thin fabric—distorted silhouettes of medical staff going about their work, patient enough in their movements but never still, always in motion.

I closed my eyes against the too-bright lighting, trying to breathe through the nausea, trying to prepare myself for Claiborne's arrival and the conversation I couldn't avoid.

But preparation required coherent thought, and coherent thought required a brain that wasn't currently swelling inside my skull with worrying pressure.

So I just sat there, alone behind a curtain in the Emergency Department, bleeding through gauze onto hospital linens, waiting for my supervisor to arrive and my lies to unravel.

The lie was in the system now. Written in Rachel's notes, documented as fact. Accident during search. Simple fall. Nothing unusual.

Except it wasn't true.

And somehow I'd have to live with that.