ORIGINAL Author's Note, March 2017: Hello again, my darlings, and welcome to Hell! Just kidding. Mostly. O_o Welp, here is my second novel-length PotO Phic, the culmination of many long hours of work, screaming, contemplating alcoholism, and above all: Feels. I sincerely hope y'all enjoy this one! It's my first modern AU, and while I'm nervous as fuck about it, I'm of course hoping that it proves to be an enjoyable story. I had initially hoped to have it posted on March 14th (Pi Day, officially, because I'm a fucking loser), but one thing led to another and that plan turned to shit before my very eyes. So here it is at ~12:01 on March 15th (*grumble grumble*). But in spite of that delay, please note that updates will happen every Tuesday, as I don't want to over saturate this story too much. But barring any major issues, chapter updates will be regular. Also, special shout-out to NewsieAndAGeek (Tumblr: phantom-of-the-keurig) for her support and the many, many conversations about how fucking awesome medical AUs are. XD Welp, I won't say too much more so that y'all can get right to reading and reviewing (hint hint), but I would like to make a note about what inspired this story to begin with almost two years ago. Once upon a time, I was watching the show ER, a medical drama that used to be on NBC and that was written by the wonderful and talented Michael Crichton (who wrote Jurassic Park, Timeline, Congo, etc.). There was one scene in an early-ish episode involving a helicopter that I thought was hella cool, and for no apparent reason I thought, "You know what would be fucking fantastic? A Phantom crossover! :D" So this was initially going to have some of those characters as well, but I didn't want the story to become too convoluted, so instead I focused mainly on PotO characters loosely based on Kay!Verse interpretation and adapted them to a modern medical setting. But I will note that as a nod to Michael Crichton, I left the setting in Chicago because I love that city and I love and respect him as an author. ^_^ The overall title of this piece comes from the Beatles song of the same name, and will be acknowledged further in time. Finally, the title of this chapter comes from the song "Hero of War" by Rise Against, which of course I suggest y'all go check out. It's a heartbreaking song, full of conflict and pain, and conveys some of what I hope to bring forward in this story, as y'alll will find out later. Some of (most of) the details of Erik's life are left vague on purpose at this time, and I hope that y'all will enjoy the journey of putting those pieces together as the story goes on. ;D At last, the traditional disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing of Phantom of the Opera or its adaptations, nor do I own the concept of Crichton's ER, and finally, I do not own any of the songs whose lyrics I used for the title of this piece and its chapters. That is to say, I own nothing, and I'm still fucking salty about it. Anywhoodles, I believe that's all. I so missed these long and pointless A/N rants. :P Remember to read, review, and enjoy!

REVISION Author's Note, April 2024: Welcome again, phriends! I've been working a while to revise both Blackbird and Eternity, and lately Blackbird revisions have been making the most progress, so in celebration of me not dying back in February, let's go ahead and get started with this revised version of Blackbird, one of my favorites that I've written over the years. The plot will be the same, but changes HAVE been made to the writing, some aspects of the story, etc., so if you'd like to see those changes, or it's just been a while since you've read this, I'm happy to see you here either way! Thank you to everyone for the love and feedback the first time around - I've taken much of that early constructive criticism into consideration here, and hopefully this will continue to be an enjoyable reading experience. Updates will be regular (though I don't have a specific day of the week in mind yet, so bear with me), and reviews of course are always welcome. The usual disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing of Phantom of the Opera or its adaptations, nor do I own the concept of Crichton's ER, and finally, I do not own any of the songs whose lyrics I used for the title of this piece and its chapters. Finally, the title of this chapter comes from the song "Hero of War" by Rise Against. Much love!

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Chapter 1 - Just Medals and Scars

Erik

I swear to fulfill, to the best of my ability and judgment, this covenant:

I will respect the hard-won scientific gains of those physicians in whose steps I walk, and gladly share such knowledge as is mine with those who are to follow.

I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures which are required, avoiding those twin traps of overtreatment and therapeutic nihilism.

I will remember that there is art to medicine as well as science, and that warmth, sympathy, and understanding may outweigh the surgeon's knife or the chemist's drug.

I will not be ashamed to say "I know not," nor will I fail to call in my colleagues when the skills of another are needed for a patient's recovery.

I will respect the privacy of my patients, for their problems are not disclosed to me that the world may know. Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. Above all, I must not play at God.

I will remember that I do not treat a fever chart, a cancerous growth, but a sick human being, whose illness may affect the person's family and economic stability. My responsibility includes these related problems, if I am to care adequately for the sick.

I will prevent disease whenever I can but I will always look for a path to a cure for all diseases.

I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm.

If I do not violate this oath, may I enjoy life and art, respected while I live and remembered with affection thereafter. May I always act so as to preserve the finest traditions of my calling and may I long experience the joy of healing those who seek my help.

- The Hippocratic Oath, 1964

Present Day, Chicago IL - Distantly, I was aware of the various pieces of medical equipment sounding off within the confines of the surgical suite, steadily alerting all in attendance to the continued signs of life of the patient on the table before us. Others spoke in hushed tones around me, sometimes to me, although I responded only when doing so was necessary to the procedure. Generally, though, my preference was to say nothing, my focus instead trained on my work.

As a surgeon, nothing else mattered to me beyond those crucial moments, beyond each deliberate and long-practiced movement of my hands. I prided myself to the point of conceitedness in that level of austere clinical focus - though, admittedly, sometimes while also stubbornly ignoring the fact that it was something I desperately clutched at as well, in order to function, to cope with the realities witnessed in this hospital. There was once a time that I had left myself prone to dwelling on circumstances beyond my control, and I'd learned the hard way that deliberate detachment was the key to overall wellbeing. When I operated, I thought only of the operation - of everything learned and perfected and applied to my career. My patients were almost always guaranteed to survive, and I in turn was granted some peace of mind - or something as close to it as possible.

So, yes, silence in the OR was very much preferred.

At any rate, in this instance, we had almost lost that patient once already, had a hell of a time urging his heart to beat properly again, and I didn't want anything or anyone to cause another potentially deadly setback. Fortunately, in the end, it became apparent that he would in fact pull through. Technically speaking, it was a routine procedure - nothing I hadn't seen before - and so I continued working with the hope it would remain that way, and that nothing I or my colleagues did during the procedure would open the doors to complications later on.

I knew very little of the patient beyond the facts necessary to keep him alive, although I had caught portions of a conversation between a nurse and the resident assisting me before I'd entered the OR; a seventeen-year-old, still just a kid when it was all said and done, caught in the crossfire of a shootout. We didn't know his connection to it, if any had existed at all. His story was another unfortunate, yet common occurrence in Chicago, but that much was all I ever would know about him.

Ultimately, I'd found that it's better for me to remain distant - distant from the patients, their families, their friends, from any connection to their life outside of this hospital, but that was easy enough to accomplish. More often than not, the patients come to me already unconscious. Whether because they'd made it to my department to be sedated first, or went under while still in the emergency room downstairs, was of little concern - as long as they survived their ordeal. Either way, I never made it a habit to get to know my patients. Though formally discouraged, that was not unheard of for surgeons, for better or worse, and by nature I had always been grateful for the traditionally detached mannerisms of my chosen specialty. One benefit of being a surgeon, of being far past my internship and residency years, was that I rarely had to interact with patients anymore. I could simply focus on repairing whatever it was that brought them to me to begin with, and that was enough.

Suddenly, the phone on the far wall was ringing, and then a nurse's voice broke through my thoughts, "Dr. Riley? Dr. Khan wants to remind you to meet him in the ER after shift change tonight, and to ask for him at the admit-desk."

I nearly rolled my eyes, "Is he worried I won't show up?"

"That sounds about right, yes," she responded, and I didn't need to look up to know she was smirking at my expense then.

"For God's sake, the man knows where I live, it's not like I can blow off this meeting and expect that to be the end of it."

Ignoring me - and moreover, ignoring the unspoken command to relay that message, rather than anything more polite - she responded too-sweetly to Nadir over the line instead, "Dr. Riley wants me to assure you that of course he'll be there, and that he's very much looking forward to seeing you again."

She hung up the phone and returned to her former position near the rest of us, and although her own surgical mask covered the majority of her face, her eyes told me that she was smiling broadly for the bit of fun she'd just gotten to have. Admittedly, I wanted to laugh, but I just shook my head at the exchange, not wanting to show any sign of approval when she already looked so damn satisfied with herself. Feigning annoyance, though, came quickly when I remembered where the levity had come from to begin with; of course I hadn't forgotten Nadir's insistence that I talk to him later in the day. But I had no idea what about, only that he was adamant that the meeting absolutely had to be today as he hurried off in another direction that morning. I could only think that he'd assumed that I had missed the importance of his words in his haste, and therefore had taken it upon himself to remind me; I hadn't mistaken him, but my unnecessary sarcasm toward him the few times we'd been in contact since then, coupled with several ignored calls to both my phone and pager were certainly not the most effective way to convince him of that.

We worked in near-silence after Nadir's call before being interrupted yet again, now by the unsteady voice of a med student beside me that gained my attention, "Dr. Riley…?"

I sighed impatiently, "Yes?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't feel well. Um, I'm not sure if I - "

" - Go to your happy place, Mr. Morrison," I said flatly, "Or step out. Your choice."

"I know I can step out," he continued tremulously, "I know, but…but I really need, ah, need the credit for today, and - "

' - Morrison, so help me, if you throw up and contaminate the field, I'm going to drag you up to the roof and shove you off of it."

The student had the good sense to nod and leave in quick succession at that, though whether because my threat had been effective, or because he truly couldn't stomach what he was seeing, I couldn't be sure. Still, the disruption was frustrating; I didn't necessarily want to lose my temper with one of the med students, but in those moments I found his lack of preparedness more annoying than was strictly called for - I had no patience for consoling any students that day. I rarely did, and I absently wondered why his mentor wasn't handling his obvious distress himself. I was no longer obligated to have med students assigned to work directly under me, and as such, I'd been enjoying the freedom. For now, I only wanted to do my job and make my meeting - the last thing I needed was a novice participant getting sick and contaminating the surgical suite, potentially harming the patient and delaying the surgery that much longer. Rationally, I knew that every one of us in medicine had once been in his position, whether we cared to admit it or not - we had all been afraid and overwhelmed and almost entirely without real-world experience.

But even so, I didn't feel generous enough to grant him that small understanding, even silently.

Following that exchange and the student's departure, I shot a glance at Morris' assigned mentor, Dr. Lucas - a resident physician that, regardless of the circumstances, I genuinely did not enjoy having to work alongside, and I knew that the dislike was mutual. We clashed often, and I sensed immediately that another conflict - albeit relatively minor, compared to the last several that had taken place between us since my arrival in Chicago the previous year - was about to start.

I paused in anticipation for it, weighing my words before speaking again, "Why was your student even here? I thought their rotations weren't starting for a couple more weeks."

"He's behind in his program, had some hours to make up this summer. Something he worked out in the dean's office, I guess."

"Ah, I see. Probably nepotism," I said derisively, then added before Lucas could argue either way, "Morris shouldn't have been asking for my dismissal at all, you know."

"This is a teaching hospital. Your input is as beneficial as mine, even if he's just excusing himself."

"He wasn't just excusing himself, he couldn't figure out what he was supposed to do. You have to be the one to direct him, he's your student."

"And you are the attending physician on this case. To him, you're running the show, and for all intents and purposes, you are. He hasn't learned yet that this specialty encourages a team effort," Lucas said, then added sharply, "Apparently, you haven't either."

I wasn't willing to acknowledge that, opting instead to glare at him across the table amid the questioning and long-suffering expressions from the nurses and the anesthesiologist. Rather, I just concluded the discussion pointedly, adopting an overly-formal tone in turn, specifically because I knew that doing so really pissed him off, "I believe we can proceed closing up now. Do you concur, Dr. Lucas?"

I heard the sardonic smile in his response, "Of course, Dr. Riley."

I was relieved that the argument wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been, but more so that the procedure was finally over, simply because the energy in the room had turned tense so abruptly. But on the whole, there was success to be considered, and it would be unwise to dismiss that fact altogether. The patient had survived, he was wheeled into the surgical ICU, and he was the last case for me of the day - barring any post-surgical complications that could occur within the next hour or so of my shift, I likely wouldn't see him again. I nodded at his departure - mostly indifferent - as Dr. Lucas went to talk to the family members.

It was another job well done, but a case like that always left me uneasy - considering the big picture, I regarded it to be somewhat of a hollow victory. There would be countless more like it in the future. There always were; for every shooting or stabbing victim whose broken body I repaired, ten more came rolling through the doors of my department, just as years ago a firefight or an IED always preempted too many of the same occurrences to count in their wake. When I stepped back and really examined the nature of my profession, it occurred to me that it had been a long time since I felt like I was truly healing anyone. Rather, it seemed that I was only one of many ordered to mask one problem in the same breath as the dregs of humanity found a thousand new ways to create more. Sometimes I had to wonder if that line of thinking - that peculiar sensation of mingled indifference and despair - is what the road to burning out as a surgeon looked like, but I dismissed the idea in the next instant. There were never any clear solutions, and if nothing else, my situation could be worse.

Once I left the suite and removed the bloodied gown and gloves, I immediately exchanged one sterile mask for another. Even outside of the OR, I never went without one beyond the privacy of my house, and I hadn't done so for quite some time.

What was still considered somewhat of an eccentricity of mine by others had earned me more than a few second glances and rude, invasive questions upon my arrival, as well as the following weeks of adjustment among my colleagues - but in general, after that time, everyone on the surgical service gave me a wide berth, for which I was silently grateful. For the sake of my sanity, I needed it to be that way. The mask coupled with my temperament made me an outsider, distant and unreachable, but I was long past caring. From the outset, I had made it explicitly clear that I wasn't there to make friends. First and foremost, I needed the steady and somewhat predictable routine of employment to keep me out of trouble; it was extremely irresponsible to allow myself time spent alone away from the demands of my career. Being a surgeon had become an entirely selfish endeavor by that point - I needed my hands and my mind to be kept busy at all times humanly possible. And so, while I certainly hadn't won the hearts of my peers, I had, at the very least, brought some semblance of normalcy into my life.

Shift change had concluded for the day; the locker room was empty by the time I got there, and I made it a point not to occupy that space for long. Keeping my meeting with Nadir in mind, I attempted to change quickly and leave the floor as soon as I could. I was mostly successful, only pausing when I caught a rare glimpse of myself in the mirror on the wall opposite my locker. I was no longer shocked by what I saw - certainly not as I had been in the beginning - but I hesitated as I considered my image just the same, experiencing what I can only describe as an odd and unexpected moment of clarity regarding the man I saw reflected in the glass. That happened to me every now and again, that strange sense of detachment from my own life, and that moment was no different from similar instances in the past; it was as if I was viewing a stranger only, someone that I barely knew, nor had expected to become in the first place.

I had removed my scrub top by then, noting absentmindedly how pale I had become this last year...too thin and too pale. I couldn't deny that I had gotten substantially better since I'd arrived in this city, but on the whole, I also had to acknowledge that my hold on recovery was tentative at best. Not for the first time, I wondered how much longer it would last. But then I shook my head at that particular train of thought; I knew that continuing would only serve to invite potentially devastating setbacks, and I couldn't afford to be thrown off course again - I didn't want to be. And so, instead I stubbornly decided to ignore the distinct flash of my arms' reflection as I began to put my regular button-up shirt on - tattoos on the left arm, gnarled and vicious and irreparable scarring on the right...down my side, up to my face…

But I didn't want to think any longer about their origins then. That was my cross to bear, that internal struggle of always fending off reminders of the pain and unpleasantness I wanted nothing more than to forget. If nothing else, doing so wasn't worth the anger anymore, especially when I still had tasks to complete before going home. The anger - the bitterness - surely needed to be dealt with, but they could wait, and I would do well to remember that.

Still, shirt buttoned and properly tucked into dark slacks, I shut my locker harder than was necessary just the same. Slightly unsettled by my brief outburst, I took a deep breath to calm down, to brace myself for what awaited me downstairs, before I gathered what items I needed to take home and walked to the elevator bank.

~~oOo~~

It was rare that I would find myself in the emergency department - only on the few occasions that I was called down for a consultation had I gone there of my own free will, grudging though that might have been. Otherwise, I preferred to avoid it; there was something about the space that grated at me. It may very well only have been that our ER was too much by nature, too loud and chaotic, a far cry from the reserved stoicism that painted every day in the surgical service - though, to be honest, I think I'd just always found emergency rooms in general to be depressing as all hell. For reasons I could only barely understand, they affected me badly, and the one here in Chicago was no different - I would always leave that department unsettled and agitated and altogether possessing a more foul mood than when I'd arrived. Altogether, I could barely handle being there.

Bearing that in mind, whenever Nadir needed to speak with me at work, he would just arrange to meet me in the relatively quiet corners of the hospital - the makeshift break area on the roof, the outdoor designated smoking sections of the campus, even the cafeteria during off-hours. The fact that he'd asked me to come down to his department told me that he was staying past shift change after all and he couldn't stray for long - as the chief of emergency services, that happened regularly, and his day had likely never quite settled down since I had seen him that morning.

So, presumably, our meeting would be short - I was grateful for that.

After asking for Nadir's whereabouts at the admit-desk, I was eventually directed to meet him in the doctor's lounge.

"Do you want coffee?" Nadir asked as soon as he recognized me entering the otherwise deserted space, motioning for me to join him at the scratched up old table in the center of the room, and not wasting time with decorum. I liked that quality in him - he wasn't one to waste time and fill the air with empty words. More often than not, he was direct.

Cringing at the dimly lit room in desperate need of organizing, I simply shook my head at his offer, then, "Well, since you hounded me all day, what do you need?"

He spoke his next words with a noticeably forced nonchalance that caught me off guard, and in turn I briefly redacted any of the kind thoughts that I had so recently felt toward his character, "I had a board meeting today."

"I know. You told me this morning," I said, "How bad was it?"

He shrugged, "The usual. But we did go over some budgetary issues. How much have I told you about it?"

"Enough to know that this hospital is financially fucked, but that's not exactly news," I shifted uneasily in my chair, steadily growing impatient that he had chosen now of all times to dance around a subject, "Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Yes and no. It's about your job."

I stiffened at that, briefly entertaining the idea that my employment was somehow in jeopardy, and all at once wondering how that could possibly be the case to begin with. As far as I knew, I hadn't done anything that would necessitate my name being brought up during any kind of staff meeting, at least not the type that had been held that morning. If there were to be any disciplinary actions taken against me, I was certain that they were unwarranted. Beyond being distant and short-tempered at best with my colleagues, I knew that I otherwise excelled in my department, in my field as a whole. I truly could not find any real reason to be involved in discussions among the higher-ups, and I was immediately dreading what Nadir had to say on the matter.

"What about my job?"

He leaned forward and finally explained quickly, almost gravely, "Alright, well...there used to be a fellowship in place for trauma surgeons in this department. But, because of budget cuts and various administrative issues, that fellowship is no longer available."

I narrowed my eyes in response, now admittedly confused by where my involvement was linked, "Meaning?"

"Meaning, the trauma fellow had to be laid off, but we still need someone down here to cover the trauma cases that the position is in place to oversee. Your name came up as the one that would fill the position. So, you'll be transferred soon, working down here for a while until they figure their shit out."

Stunned, I couldn't respond then, unsure of exactly how to react as I attempted to comprehend his words - I hadn't been expecting that news at all. It was certainly within the realm of possibility for me, or any other physician without tenure or an established fellowship, for that matter, to be shifted from one department to another, that the hospital's over-worked administration could make those kinds of changes when necessary. And, apparently, the reassignment of certain physician staff members had very recently become necessary. But in those moments, it felt less like a practical response to a budget crisis, and more like a demotion on my part - an insult in spite of logic insisting that it was not meant as such.

Even so, I didn't want it. I couldn't begin to guess then what the long-term effects would be on my career, nevermind my psychological wellbeing; if past experience was any reliable indicator of things to come, then I didn't like the implications whatsoever. I had never been one to respond well to unforeseen disruptions to my carefully planned and implemented sense of familiarity, nor to the feeling of a complete lack of agency where any aspect of my life was concerned. Though I still struggled, I had spent nearly a year managing to settle into a routine that worked for me - I didn't want to give it all up after everything I'd been through to get to that point. I didn't want to be forced to give it all up.

Ignorant to the panic that was building in me then, Nadir added carefully, "There's more."

"Jesus Christ - "

" - It's not much more," he assured hastily as he held up a hand in a placating gesture, "I'm just telling you now so all this information doesn't flood you, but you're also going to be on-call for the MediVac chopper for a couple of weeks, until they can find a replacement for the flight physician."

"Another layoff?" I snapped.

"Yes, unfortunately."

"Fantastic. Well, I'm not accepting either proposal," I stood to leave, "Thanks, though."

"Sit down, Erik. This is not a request. Dr. Phelps is going to call you soon to talk over the details and revise your work agreement, but I wanted to warn you about all this at once, in advance."

I complied and remained seated, though not without effort. Shaking my head, I tried to argue, still not willing to accept this unexpected turn of events, "They can't just take me out of the surgical service."

"They can, though. We have to have a trauma surgeon in our department to remain open as a level-one in this county, and you haven't been here long enough to gain the seniority to opt out of this. Besides, you're the best candidate. You're a trauma specialist, and you have the most experience. They know you've seen combat - "

" - I would think they'd want to keep me as far away from any reminders of combat as possible," I said bitterly, remembering the hassle and the indignity and the seemingly endless discussions of risk and liability that I had gone through a year prior to even be considered for approval to work at County.

"Psychologically, you're competent to handle this kind of position. Unless something's changed recently that I should know about?" he prompted.

"Nadir, you obviously remember how bad I was before," I sighed, "But now I don't imagine that I'll harm myself or others in the foreseeable future. Those are the key words, right?"

Pointedly ignoring my last bit of sarcasm, he said, "You'll do fine here, then. And you're much better now, you know. Whether or not you actively choose to believe it."

Dismissing his encouragement, I murmured instead, "This isn't what I agreed to when I took my position. Besides..." I hesitated before speaking again, "You can't assume I'll do fine here. I can't deal with ERs."

Nadir offered a sympathetic half-smile at the admission, understanding the underlying meaning of my words, "I know, but it's either this, or risk your position here altogether. So please, just play along, we'll figure out everything else."

"I could just decline and hope for the best."

"Believe me, this isn't the hill you want to die on. If they chose not to renew your contract later over this, other hospitals just aren't hiring right now, and I don't want you to have to leave Chicago - "

" - I don't actually live in Chicago, to be fair - "

" - And I don't quite trust you enough yet to let you loose into the world," he held up his hand again as I was about to protest and continued, "You are doing a hell of a lot better than before, but I think it would be unwise to test the waters so soon - "

" - And yet, the powers-that-be still think it's a good idea to put me in a fucking helicopter - "

" - Even so, you've made a lot of progress this year. I don't want to see you losing all of that headway now, especially not over something like this. At any rate, you need to remain in good standing with this hospital."

"I would prefer not to fold under these bullshit policies."

"You could've been among the ones laid off instead, you know. If you don't pitch a fit over this now, you won't be one of the ones on the chopping block the next time something like this happens."

I rolled my eyes, attempting to ease the tension as I saw clearly that there really was no feasible way out of this, "I don't have much of a choice, apparently."

"Sorry," Nadir sighed again, "Just accept this for what it is and work with it."

I was silent for a moment, before ultimately deciding to accept defeat once and for all, "When do I start down here?"

"Next week, I think. Three days on, three days off."

I scoffed - that was truly the only tolerable part of this damn nonsense, "At least my schedule isn't changing. Anything else?"

"No. Like I said, you'll have the official meeting about this with Phelps, someone from her office will contact you with the exact time. I just wanted to warn you beforehand. I figured you'd probably appreciate that."

"Thanks," I laughed humorlessly as I stood, "Well, it's been a delightful visit, Dr. Khan, but I think I've had all of the good news I can handle for the day. I'm heading out," I said as I nodded toward the door, "I'm more than ready to go home, see Rex. Maybe sleep."

"Maybe sleep?" Nadir asked in mock-horror.

I shrugged, conveying a calmer demeanor than I actually felt, "We'll see."

"I'll stop by tomorrow."

"That's fine," I called over my shoulder as I made my way to the exit.

~~oOo~~

When I finally arrived home later that night and opened my front door, the sound of massive paws against hardwood and a rush of black and white immediately found me; dropping my keys and surgical mask on the table in the small foyer, I smiled at my pitbull mastiff, Rex. At two years old, he was technically an adult, but I would not be convinced that he wasn't still a puppy in spite of his large size. Officially, he was my service dog, one of many trained and placed with veterans diagnosed with PTSD, and in that capacity, he was damn good at his job. But when he wasn't wearing his vest, his professional demeanor instantly gave way to his docile temperament each time without fail. When he wasn't coaxing me out of a panic attack or flashback - which had, by no small feat, gradually become rare occurrences over the time that I've had him - I simply enjoyed his company. He was one of the few genuine joys in my life. I scratched his ears in greeting, laughing at the sound of his tail pounding against the floor, as I walked further into my house.

The house in Schaumburg - a suburb just outside of Chicago and substantially quieter than the sprawling city - was the first that I had ever owned. It had been relatively simple to purchase, even easier to move into after so many years as a self-imposed minimalist, and more often than not, I could say that I was content there - even if I still didn't feel settled entirely. It wasn't necessarily for lack of trying on my part, but rather a lifetime of experience telling me that I shouldn't expect to remain anywhere for long. To be settled only meant looming disappointment, I was sure. But this time could be different - would be, if I'd had any say in the matter - and with that resolve in mind, I had steadily compelled myself to believe that it was acceptable to live in relative peace, until the moment arrived wherein I finally convinced myself that it would last.

That evening, however, I was decidedly more restless than I had been in some time, still upset by the shifting of my position between departments, and the fact that the decision had been entirely out of my hands. It had distressed me far more than I had initially realized, and as a result, none of my usual interests or constructive outlets appealed to me - the piano remained silent and untouched in the living room, vinyl albums and books lay abandoned on their shelves. Nothing seemed inviting, nothing promised relief from my agitation. After wandering aimlessly around my house for far too long, a dark impulse wondered if it might not be for the best to simply abandon responsibility altogether and hole myself up in my upstairs office indefinitely, nursing a Jack and Coke, a Scotch, - anything, really.

The end of that workday marked the beginning of my next three shifts off from hospital, three days away from the distraction of my profession; I had nowhere else to be and no one to visit, save for maybe Nadir - maybe, if he wasn't too exhausted himself after all to fulfill his earlier offer to come over. I'd certainly welcome him, but otherwise I didn't necessarily feel up to seeking out company by then. At any rate, who else was there? I could feasibly disappear for a little while and allow myself to fall into the state of anxiety and mental turmoil that I was beginning to sense on the horizon - and I could in turn do something about that internal chaos. I could employ any number of my old methods of calming myself down, forcing my mind to slow and quiet its relentless beating.

But I made my sincerest attempt to drive the idea from my mind - I knew better than to give myself to those kinds of impulses, tempting though they were on days that threatened my carefully constructed routine of forced self-control.

After time, I ultimately decided to take Rex for a long walk. He needed a chance to be outside - really outside, and not just confined to the backyard - and it seemed to be a simple enough solution, even as much as I absolutely hated the ordeal of going out in public. People, no matter where I went or the time of day, are simply too unpredictable for me to tolerate with any semblance of patience for long. Some only stared, but then there were inevitably the others that asked too many questions, that cane far too close to me, and without fail I'd be regarded either with superficial pity, or with outright scorn when my temper would be tested beyond its limits - some instances even turning violent, namely whenever I was drinking. But the weather that mid-August night was still warm enough to be mostly uncomfortable, and I assumed that not many people would be very willing to go out in guaranteed discomfort; a walk seemed safe enough then.

I donned the surgical mask again, a ritual of preparing for the outdoors that I never neglected. Doing so certainly drew its own unwanted attention, as it did in the workplace - but while it was still a largely unpleasant experience for me to go outside, that evening, beyond Rex's need to stretch his legs compelling me out of the privacy of my home, it was imperative for me to redirect my attention away from my problems, past or present.

So I called him over, leash in hand. Then, as an afterthought, I put his vest on - dark blue with Service Dog, Do Not Pet in bold letters on the sides. I didn't always make him wear that just to walk the neighborhood - more often than not lately, it wasn't necessary. But in spite of my resolve to find a way to settle down without resorting to destruction, I was still feeling nervous, and instinct told me that I would likely have a panic attack before the walk was over. If for any reason I couldn't regain control of myself quickly enough, at least I could guarantee some modicum of safety. Rex might have to act in his official capacity sooner or later, but I trusted him, and therefore felt confident in taking the calculated risk of going out in my present state of mind.

Few people were out then, as I had assumed, and I eventually convinced myself to relax as I led us further away from my neighborhood. Initially, I forced myself to think of nothing beyond what was immediately relevant - cross the road here, turn left there, straighten the leash...I had no destination in mind; keeping track of my surroundings was simply a matter of preventing myself from losing my bearings. But that method did help to an extent, and slowly I began to feel some confidence, even relative calmness returning. Walking at a steady pace, shoulders squared in a display of stubbornness in the event that someone approached us after all, I tapped out a series of rhythms on the leash's plastic handle, a habit that many years of musicianship had instilled. Gradually, I deemed it appropriate to allow myself to reflect on the events of the day, assuming that I was calm enough by then to do so, to somehow make sense of it all.

However, that quickly proved to be a mistake - the more I dwelled on it, the worse I felt. I could find no immediate answer, no way to make it all palatable, because the fact of the matter was that even the idea of being confined to the emergency room indefinitely left me with a deep sense of foreboding. I knew exactly what to expect - every hospital is the same. I remembered all too clearly what would come through those doors, just raw and uncensored suffering, intense in a way that was in direct opposition to the control I'd grown accustomed to in the OR, even in trauma cases. Very much - too much - like Afghanistan.

Sensing my distress, Rex began his attempt to indicate the stark shift in my emotions. Ideally, there would have been enough time between that initial signal from him and the anxiety attack itself to effectively do something about it. But on that occasion, I had not given myself the chance, had overestimated my composure after all. Without warning, a car backfired as it drove down a particularly narrow street, interrupting my thoughts as the cracking noise echoed off of the cluster of shops and office buildings around me, and I immediately responded with an almost violent intensity at the sound. Nearly losing my footing as I did so, I jumped back, hitting a wall behind me forcefully. Though I remained where I stood, I wanted so badly to run, telling myself to be ready to fight as I felt a terror so fierce and pervasive that I was quickly becoming paralyzed in spite of everything within me begging me to take action somehow.

It was just a car - I knew that, I knew that. Under any other circumstances, I likely wouldn't have even noticed it or paid it much attention if I had. But in my stress-addled mind then, I wasn't hearing the ordinary sounds of the world around me - I was hearing gunshots, grenades…surrounded again by the sounds of war and images of bloodshed and pain that would never be buried. And it seemed so absurd that they should appear to me then, seemingly as if from nowhere - I was in my right mind, and presumably had been for the last year at the very least, I knew exactly where I was in space and time. But, I realized too late that as I reflected upon the sudden change in my life and its distressing implications - its reminders of everything I wanted to leave behind me - I had allowed myself to become very vulnerable, distracted to the point of carelessness. So much so that I had inadvertently fallen prey to old and familiar patterns. I knew when I left the house that I could have a panic attack, but I hadn't been expecting an all-out flashback whatsoever - it had all happened so fast...

It was a car, I told myself firmly, It was a car. Calm down.

But I felt like I was suffocating - drowning as I fought to catch my breath. Heart pounding so forcefully that I was certain that it would break through my chest, I slid down the wall that I had crashed against, falling crumpled on the ground like a child. I was still holding the handle of Rex's leash, but now so tightly that my knuckles had turned white, yet I was barely aware of that as I struggled against myself. Rex hovered over me, nudging me and trying patiently to coax me back into reality, but countless moments passed before I found enough strength to respond to him, weakly drawing him close and patting his head to show he'd done well. It took quite a while to recover even after that, to convince myself of my own continued safety, but after a time, my heartbeat finally slowed, and my hands stopped shaking. Without a second thought, I immediately stood and began to take the steps to return home, Rex continuing to act attentively as he was trained.

I hadn't had a flashback, let alone one that severe, in several months, and it was immeasurably unnerving to have had one then. In those moments that followed the worst of it, I couldn't deny that something terribly wrong was unfolding before me. I felt like I was falling apart, that one decision made by a panel of people I largely considered strangers should be so disruptively momentous for me, and as such, I began to very seriously worry once again about things to come. I wasn't entirely sure how to go on from there, what decision would be most in my favor. All I knew was that I needed to get a handle on myself immediately, before it became too late to turn back.

History could not be allowed to repeat itself.