Killed. Survived. Lived.

Posted on 30 Aug 2023 @ 11:18am by Petty Officer 2nd Class Leon Inaros

711 words; about a 4 minute read

Killed.

Survived.

Lived.

I think those are truly all the options we have in life. Or at least, based on what I have experienced in my life and in my career.

I’ve come to recognise something. There is something special about the quietness of a sickbay, when there are no wounded, no appointments, nothing to make us wonder if the next breath the patient takes will be their last. Or ours. There is something comforting, almost comfortable, about a sickbay when there’s no red alert. Biobeds, clean and ready, equipment stowed away safely, the way that everyone has tasks that seem second nature.

I haven’t always had this life. I haven’t always worn this uniform either. It’s not that long ago, if you really think about it, that I was the boots on the ground, a rifle in my hand and a medbag at my side. Where my life was running towards danger, shooting, before stopping to try and save a life. It didn’t have to be pretty, there were no talks about removing scars. I was a Marine Medic. I plugged the holes long enough to get someone transported to safety. The safety was never that safe and I don’t know how many of the people I went to survived in the end.

Some I know. T’Har, a Vulcan, caught in a disruptor explosion, severe damage to the face and trauma to the torso. I know he died because I was there when he did. I held him, while the sound of phasers rang in my ears. I felt his blood soak into my clothes, knowing that the best I could do was be there for him. He never cried out, I don’t know if he even knew I was there. I like to think he knew he wasn’t alone though.

Maribel Edwardson, severe trauma to the legs. She survived but would never walk again. She was the last patient transported when we retreated, at her own insistence. She was a Commander after all, and her injuries weren’t life-threatening. I think she teaches at the Academy now; I can’t remember what. I remember her auburn hair and her sharp eyes as she held my hand.

Jules Glenn. It wasn’t his real name he told me as I was patching him up. He didn’t have a name; his parents gave him up for adoption and he never bothered finding out who they was. Half-Bajoran though, so he felt the fight. Trauma to the left side of his body, he kept coughing blood for hours. He asked the Prophets for help. He didn’t die but I am pretty sure he had moments he wished he had.

Leon Aquilo Inaros. Caught in an explosion, shrapnel to the chest and right leg, pneumothorax. Fancy way of saying collapsed lung. Kept gasping for breath with the brain rattled, operated on in the field. Lucky we were close to an actual surgeon. Small behaviour changes afterwards diagnosed as a traumatic brain injury. Five days of medical leave where basically he managed to mess himself up even more with gambling, sex and free-flowing alcohol. Returned to duty and survived.

Survived was a good word for it during the war, I never felt I lived. After it ended, like many others, I spent time not knowing what to do with myself. Sitting in the silence and still hearing the screaming in my head. Therapy helped. And now? I don’t hear the screaming as much. Not in sickbay anyway, this clean and sparkling place that helps people.

So the uniform is different. And my hair is greying, and I am pretty sure I need to get my eyes fixed in a few years’ time. Sometimes though, I wonder, about those I saw during the war. And I wonder if those that survived are now living rather than just trying to get by. And if they are, maybe I need to start living more except constantly just surviving. Who knows. All I know is that I have a place for now, here, on this ship. I don’t know what the future holds but for now I will take that stability.
Killed.

Survived.

Lived.

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