Guilt

[Demitri Mashschenko 0]

Guilt

A Joint Log by Ensigns Pace and Mashschenko

 

Dim light reflected off the walls of Demitri's office, melding into the muted colors of the room. It was a common practice to use sparse lighting among counselors and therapists. Low lights gave the feeling of relaxation - encouraging discussion, reflection, and inward assessment. Or so Mashschenko was told…it was an excellent cover for hangovers. But Demitri was not hungover today...not yet. Today the lights were dim for an entirely therapeutic reason. Brighter lights would have revealed little else about the room. It remained in its standard, Starfleet arranged position - the couches and tables shifted back exactly where the unappreciated deckhand had left them. The only thing of interest that could be seen in the room was the Counselor himself, who currently was lounging on the couch typically reserved for the patient. John wouldn't mind, he was certain.

 

John slowly made his way down the corridor. He stared at the deck, unwilling to make eye contact with anyone he passed. While he walked, he thought about the last image he had of the crewman who died on his biobed: Her gasping for air, and the life creeping out of her. He could not shake the image. Suddenly he realized he was in front of the counselor's office. He hesitated for a few seconds then finally pressed the door chime. He wiped his hands on his uniform, feeling ashamed to need to go to the counselor at all, being a doctor himself.

 

A door chime, how delightful. Hangover or not, that thing was not kind to the ears. He'd have to requisition something more pleasant sounding, like nails on a chalkboard. 'I don't lock the doors, you know,' Demitri called from inside.

 

John heard a voice with a barely noticeable Russian accent on the other side of the door. He pressed the door release, and walked in. His eyes had to adjust to the dim lighting in the room. After a few seconds, he glanced at the small office, noting how orderly it looked, considering the rest of the ship was in shambles with the transfer of equipment and personnel to the Excalibur. A fleeting...thought occurred to him: This will probably be the last time I set foot on an Excelsior class vessel. He finally made eye contact with Demitri. 'Hello counselor.'

 

Mashschenko made no move to greet his guest, gesturing simply instead to the seat intended for himself. 'Pop a squat, John.' He kept his eye contact minimal. Always best to keep them on their toes - it helped bring out the root of things much more quickly. Remaining decidedly silent, Demitri forced himself into an upright position, and adopted a look of serious consideration. By all accounts, he looked as if /he/ were the patient, waiting for Counselor Pace to begin the session.

 

John made a puzzled expression, then sat in the chair offered to him. He thought back to what he knew about counseling methods, but stopped himself before he could analyze Demitri. John reminded himself he was here to seek help, not the other way around. Making himself as comfortable as possible, and finding the pause between them awkward, John said 'Thank you for seeing me on such short notice...counselor.'

'Of course...of course...' The counselor hung to his words, seemingly without anything else to say. His expression did not waver as the silence continued. Watching. Staring. Analyzing. Or so it seemed.

 

Finding the silence detestable, John said, 'I guess you want me to start us off then?' Taking his silence as an affirmative, John decided to cut right to the heart of the issue. 'I am having trouble managing my guilt over the death of a patient. The first death on my watch as a doctor. I'm sure you're aware of the deaths that occurred from the Scorpiad attack, as I'm sure you are counseling the friends of the deceased. One of the deceased, Crewman Etana Mizo, was under my care.'

 

Adopting Pace's, straight-forward way of getting to things, the Counselor kept his question simple, 'Was it your fault?'

 

Caught off guard by the directness of the question, John paused, then replied, 'No. It was a miracle she was not DOA. All I had time to do was give her something for the extreme pain.' He looked down, almost as if ashamed. 'And yet, I feel like I could have done something more, or if she had been given to someone else on the medical staff in that triage situation, maybe they could have saved her.'

Demitri nodded, as if understanding the entirety of Pace's predicament. 'I see. Then you feel you're incompetent as a physician.'

 

Surprised by his statement, John quickly replied 'Absolutely not! Although I'm young, I feel I'm an excellent physician.' After finishing the statement, he realized how self-centered the comment had sounded. Pausing for a moment, he continued. 'I don't feel like I did anything wrong or against good judgment, but I can't stop thinking about what could have been.'

 

'What could have been if...what? She was in, by your own admission, capable hands.' He glanced away. Pep talks weren't his thing. Being a doctor himself, albeit, a rather detached one, he could sympathize with the younger physician. Sympathy would do little good to prep the doctor for his next death, or the one after that, or the dozens that would likely follow. A hard-ass was exactly what the doctor ordered.

 

John looked up, and made direct eye contact with Demitri. 'No, I feel I am as capable as anyone else. When I say what could have been, I mean what if she had arrived just a few seconds earlier? Could I have treated her successfully? What if Dr. Dubois or Dr. Wydown know of better ways to treat patients with her injuries? I knew I would see people die when I became a doctor, and I know how to deal with a death, even in my own family, but none of those have kept me up at night, tossing and turning!' Finishing his statement, John felt like he had come off too defensive, but ignored the thought.

'Perhaps you should give up sleeping, hm?' Demitri smirked. Okay, even that was a little harsh on his part.

 

John wanted to get up and leave, but he knew Demitri was joking. He scoffed at the comment, and said, 'Counselor, if you're trying to be funny, it's not-'

 

Mashschenko continued, 'Look…' Clearly the patient was having an adverse effect to his medicine. 'It was no more your responsibility to keep Mizo alive than it was mine. You're here to do what you can for the patients you have - it is not your job to save every soul the comes staggering into the sickbay.' The smirk crept its way back on his face, 'And if you can't handle that…I suggest you find a new calling. I hear Starfleet's in need of more ships' counselors…'

 

John paused in reflection after Demitri stopped talking. He barely even registered his last comment. He was caught up on a phrase Demitri had used: every soul. After a few seconds, John snapped back to reality and continued his conversation with Mashschenko, his tone markedly different. 'Demtiri, you're right. I'm here to help all of the crew, and focusing on one crewman takes away from my ability to do so. And I can handle it. I just need...time.'

Demitri 1. Guilt 0. 'Time is something you've got, Ensign. But I do not.' The counselor glanced toward the door, making his intentions apparent, 'Now, if you'll excuse me...I believe the Chief will be in search of a hug. I do hope someone's got him clothed by now...' He furrowed his brow - it was a legitimate concern.

 

Smirking, John stood up slowly, nodded at Demitri and walked toward the door. It swooshed open, but before he walked out, he turned toward Mashschenko and said, 'Hey Counselor, you may be a jerk, but you're alright. I owe you a drink.' He walked out before Demitri had a chance to respond. Walking down the corridor toward the turbo lift, he thought about his counseling session. He could not stop thinking about the word Demitri had used. Soul. John was taken aback by it, because it made him think about something he had not thought about in years. His faith.