Chapter 2: ER Panic
The flatline’s relentless drone sliced through the frantic shouts from Trauma Bay Three, a single, unwavering scream declaring gone. Johnny’s fist slammed against the cool, unyielding plexiglass barrier separating him from the chaos. "THAT’S MY SON!" he roared, his voice raw, cracking under the weight of pure, animal terror. "LET ME IN!" Spittle flew, hitting the transparent wall. He saw the blur of blue scrubs surrounding the gurney, the violent jolt of Robby’s thin frame under paddles, a sight that ripped a choked sob from Johnny’s throat.
"Sir, you have to step back!" The security guard’s hand landed firmly on Johnny’s shoulder, trying to pull him from the window. Johnny shrugged him off violently, his eyes glued to the scene beyond the glass – the doctor shouting orders, the nurse pumping Robby’s chest, the terrifying stillness of his son’s pale, blood-smeared face. The guard grabbed him again, firmer. "They’re doing everything they can, but you can’t–"
"Get your fucking hands off me!" Johnny snarled, whirling, shoving the guard hard enough to send him stumbling back a step. The guard’s hand went to his radio, eyes wide. Johnny didn’t care. His focus snapped back to the bay. They’re killing him. Standing there while he dies. He pressed his forehead against the cool plexiglass, his breath fogging the surface inches from where Robby’s head lay motionless. "Come on, kid," he whispered, a desperate, broken prayer. "Just breathe. Just fucking breathe." He didn’t see the guard calling for backup, the wary stares from nurses at the station. He only saw the limp hand dangling off the gurney, the same hand that had, just minutes ago, barely touched his own in the alley before everything went dark. The rhythmic, artificial shunk of the defibrillator charging cut through the flatline, a final, deafening punctuation to the silence Johnny felt expanding inside his own chest. He didn’t breathe.
The flatline’s scream hammered against the plexiglass, a physical force pressing Johnny back. He didn’t breathe. His own heart seemed to stutter, skipping against his ribs, as the violent thump of the defibrillator jolted Robby’s limp body on the gurney. A choked sound, part sob, part denial, escaped Johnny’s throat as Robby’s chest stayed terrifyingly still. Then, a sudden, sharp gasp rasped from the speakers, weak but unmistakable – the flatline jagged into a frantic, uneven spike on the monitor.
Johnny sagged hard against the window, the rigid plexiglass the only thing keeping him upright. The relentless electronic shriek faded from his awareness, replaced by a roaring white noise in his ears. He watched, unblinking, as Robby’s pale, blood-streaked chest rose… fell… rose again, shallow but alive. It wasn’t victory, just a fragile, terrifying reprieve snatched from the edge.
The sheer, overwhelming force of relief and spent terror hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. His knees buckled violently. The chaotic sounds of the ER – the urgent voices, the beeping monitors – abruptly cut out, replaced by a dull, muffled ringing. He saw Robby’s unnaturally still hand dangling off the gurney, the smear of blood on his own sleeve suddenly vivid, the crumpled Oxy slip lying forgotten on the floor near his boot. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead seemed to dim, tunneling his vision.
JOHNNY COLLAPSES. His body gave way completely, folding in on itself. He hit the cold, sterile linoleum with a heavy thud, consciousness fleeing as swiftly as it had returned to his son, the image of Robby’s fragile breath the last thing seared onto his mind before the darkness took him.
The cold linoleum pressed against his cheek, smelling sharply of disinfectant and floor wax. Muffled voices swam above him, distant and urgent, drowned by the frantic drumming inside his own skull. Something rough scraped his forehead.
"Sir!"
A hand shook his shoulder, firm and insistent. Johnny’s eyes snapped open, blinking against the harsh overhead fluorescents, his mind clawing its way back from the suffocating darkness.
The image slammed into him: Robby’s limp hand, the smear of bright blood on pale skin, the flatline’s relentless shriek tearing through the bay. Panic seized his throat, raw and immediate. "Is my son okay?" he rasped, scrambling to push himself up on trembling arms, desperate eyes scanning the corridor for the trauma bay doors. "Where is he?"
The nurse kneeling beside him, her expression professionally detached, didn’t meet his frantic gaze. "Sir, you passed out," she stated flatly, her focus on checking his pulse, her words slicing past his question like it hadn't been spoken.
Johnny shoved her hand away, the coppery scent of Robby’s blood still sharp on his sleeve. "My son," he demanded, his voice raw gravel scraping against the fluorescent hum and distant beeps. "Where's my kid?" He tried to lever himself up, head pounding, vision swimming with the afterimage of Robby’s unnaturally still hand. Behind the partially open door of the trauma bay, shielded by a cart, two nurses conferred in low, urgent tones, and their hushed words sliced through the muffled hospital noise: "How do we tell him?"
The sharp tang of bleach in Johnny's nose made his eyes water as he lurched to his feet, ignoring the nurse's restraining hand. "Tell me what?" he demanded, staggering towards the hushed voices like a wounded bull, his voice cracking under the weight of Robby's blood still drying stiff on his t-shirt. The taller nurse flinched, clutching a clipboard like a shield, her eyes darting to the trauma bay door where machines still whirred behind the glass. "Mr. Lawrence," she started, her voice too soft, too careful, "your son... he had a reaction to the sedative." Johnny's world narrowed to her lips moving, the words "accidental overdose" hanging unspoken in the antiseptic air as the flatline's ghost screamed again in his memory.
The coppery smell of Robby’s blood, dried stiff on his own sleeve, choked him. "What overdose?" Johnny rasped, the words scraping like broken glass in his raw throat, his hand shooting out to grip the nurse’s forearm, knuckles white. She flinched, pulling back instinctively, exchanging a terrified glance with her colleague near the trauma bay door where Robby lay vulnerable. Johnny leaned in, the sterile light catching the desperate fury in his bloodshot eyes. "You tell me exactly what happened to my son," he ground out, the command vibrating with a lifetime of pent-up failures and the fresh, icy terror of the flatline, HE DEMANDS ANSWERS.
"You tell me exactly what happened to my son," he ground out, the command vibrating with a lifetime of pent-up failures and the fresh, icy terror of the flatline. He DEMANDS ANSWERS. His grip tightened on the nurse’s forearm, making her wince. "The head injury," the taller nurse stammered, her eyes darting to the trauma bay door, "it was bad, bleeding... we gave medication to keep him still for the scan."
Johnny’s gaze snapped to the crumpled Oxy slip lying near his boot on the linoleum. "The painkillers?" The scent of Robby’s drying blood, sharp and metallic on his own sleeve, filled his nostrils. "We administered a standard sedative," the other nurse interjected quickly, her voice tight, "Propofol. But his system..."
She trailed off, biting her lip. "It didn’t react right." Johnny released the first nurse’s arm abruptly, staring at them. "What the hell does that mean?" he barked, the fluorescent lights suddenly too bright, too harsh. "His breathing slowed way down," the first nurse whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant beeping from another room. "Way too fast. Crashed."
The word hung in the sterile air like poison gas. Crashed. They meant the flatline. They meant dead. Johnny felt the cold linoleum tilt slightly under his worn boots, the memory of that relentless electronic shriek echoing. "Why?" His voice cracked, rough as sandpaper. "Why'd that happen?" He saw the nurses exchange another loaded glance, heavy with unspoken knowledge. "His bloodwork," the second nurse said carefully, avoiding Johnny’s burning stare, "showed significant Oxycodone already in his system. Higher levels than... expected." She paused, the clinical detachment cracking slightly. "Combined with the Propofol... it was too much. His body couldn’t handle it." Johnny stared at her, the implications detonating silently within him. Robby hadn’t just had a prescription.
Johnny stared at the nurse, the words "higher levels" echoing alongside the ghostly shriek of the flatline in his skull. Robby hadn't just had a prescription. He’d been using. Using enough that a standard hospital sedative nearly killed him. The implications hit Johnny like successive gut punches – the simmering anger, the skittishness he’d mistaken for resentment, all the times Robby pushed him away harder than usual. He swallowed against a surge of bile, the sterile air suddenly thick and suffocating.
He opened his mouth, maybe to demand more answers, maybe to scream, but the second nurse shifted nervously, clutching her clipboard tighter, her knuckles white. "Mr. Lawrence," she began, her voice dropping to a near whisper, laced with an uncomfortable dread that froze Johnny more effectively than any physical restraint. She couldn't meet his eyes, staring instead at the bloodstain blooming dark on his sleeve near his elbow. "The paramedics... when they gathered his personal effects from the alley... before they brought him in..."
She paused, swallowing hard, the fluorescent lights glinting off the sweat at her hairline. Johnny felt the cold seep into his bones, deeper than the linoleum chill. "What?" he rasped, the single word scraping out, raw and barely audible.
The nurse forced herself to look up at him, her expression one of profound, reluctant sorrow. "We also found in his belongings what looked like a suicide note…."
The sentence hung, suspended in the antiseptic air. Johnny stopped breathing. The frantic beeps of distant machines, the low murmur of the ER, the fluorescent buzz – all sound vanished into a vacuum. The crumpled Oxy slip on the floor near his boot ceased to exist. He saw only the nurse’s pitying eyes, heard only those damning words echoing: suicide note.
His vision tunneled violently. The bright lights, the sterile white walls, the concerned faces of the nurses, everything blurred and pulsed. His hand, still vaguely outstretched towards the nurse who’d spoken, trembled uncontrollably. That familiar shield of anger he wielded like a weapon against Robby, against the world, against his own failures, didn’t just crack; it shattered into a million useless shards. The coppery scent of Robby’s dried blood on his shirt filled his nostrils, sickeningly intimate, horribly final.
He made a sound, low and guttural, more animal than man – the sound of something vital tearing deep inside. His knees buckled again, but this time he didn’t hit the floor. He swayed, catching himself against the cold plexiglass partition of the trauma bay, his forehead pressing hard against the transparent barrier separating him from his son. Through the distorted view, he could see the faint rise and fall of Robby’s chest beneath sterile sheets, the machines now beeping with steady, mocking reassurance. Alive. For now. But carrying that note.
He pushed away from the glass, staggering back a step. "Where?" he demanded, his voice a shattered whisper. "Where is it?" The taller nurse gestured mutely towards a small, clear plastic bag sitting on a nearby counter, half-hidden under a chart. Inside, Johnny saw the familiar worn denim of Robby’s wallet, his smashed phone, keys... and a single, folded square of lined notebook paper, visible through the plastic. His name – Johnny – scrawled across the front in Robby’s messy handwriting. Seeing it made it horrifically real. He stumbled towards the counter, reaching for the bag with a hand that shook violently, his other hand instinctively pressing against his own chest, as if trying to hold his breaking heart inside his ribs. The world narrowed to that square of paper. He fumbled for the bag, the plastic crackling obscenely loud in the sudden silence of his own terrified focus. He needed to see it. He needed to know what words his son had chosen to leave him with. His fingers closed around the cool plastic, pulling the bag clumsily towards him, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He tore at the seal, his movements frantic, desperate, ignoring the nurses' murmured protests. He had to see. He had to know. He yanked the folded paper free from the bag, its edges slightly crumpled. The sterile hospital light fell on the cheap notebook paper, stark against the tremor in his hand. He unfolded it with clumsy urgency, the single page trembling violently. His eyes, stinging and blurred, scanned the top line, Robby’s handwriting swimming for a second before snapping into terrible, undeniable focus. He began to read.
The cheap notebook paper felt flimsy and cold in Johnny’s shaking hand. Robby’s messy scrawl swam before his bloodshot eyes, then snapped into brutal clarity:
Dad -
I guess you found this. Or maybe you didn’t. Doesn't matter. Nothing ever does with us, right? Feels like every time I let myself think maybe... maybe this time you'll actually see me... you vanish. Or screw it up. Or just look right through me like I'm some annoying stain on your windshield.
Johnny sucked in a sharp breath, the sterile air suddenly thick as syrup, coppery blood smell from his sleeve mixing with the sharp tang of his own fear-sweat. The words punched him low in the gut.
The pills help. Make the noise stop. Make me stop. But they’re not enough anymore. Nothing is. The anger… it’s like a fire I can’t put out. Burns everything.
He flinched at the word "pills," the crumpled Oxy slip on the floor flashing in his mind. Robby wasn't just using. He was drowning.
That day at Cobra Kai, when you finally showed up after Miguel… I thought maybe. But you chose him. Again. Always them. Never me.
The memory hit Johnny like a physical blow – Robby’s devastated face after the school fight, the gulf between them widening into a canyon he didn’t know how to cross. He hadn't chosen Miguel over Robby... had he? The justification felt hollow now, scraped raw by Robby’s jagged script.
I’m just so tired. Tired of being the problem. Tired of waiting for you to give a shit. Tired of being alone.
Johnny’s vision blurred. He swiped angrily at his eyes with the back of his bloodstained hand, smearing grime. He forced himself to read the final lines, the letters trembling on the page:
Don’t blame yourself. Or do. Whatever. Just… stop pretending. It’s easier for everyone. Specially me.
Robby
The paper slipped from Johnny’s numb fingers, fluttering silently to the sterile linoleum near the crumpled prescription. He sagged back hard against the cold wall, the fluorescent lights buzzing like angry insects overhead. The steady beep-beep-beep from Robby’s trauma bay monitor felt like a cruel joke. "Tired of being alone." The words echoed, merging with the flatline shriek still ringing in his skull. He stared at the plastic bag containing Robby’s wallet, his smashed phone – the skateboard accident. Was it just an accident? Or had Robby aimed for that uneven landing ramp? Johnny’s breath hitched, a strangled sound escaping his throat as the horrifying possibility took root: Did he jump?
Johnny leaned against the sterile wall, Robby’s note crumpled in his bloodstained fist, the words "tired of being alone" echoing the flatline’s ghostly shriek in his memory. Footsteps pounded down the corridor, sharp and urgent against the linoleum. Daniel LaRusso skidded around the corner, his usually pristine suit jacket rumpled, tie askew, face pale beneath the harsh fluorescents.
"Where is he?" Daniel demanded, breathless, his eyes darting past Johnny to the trauma bay doors marked with a stark red ‘3’. "The hospital called about an accident—critical condition—where’s Robby?" His gaze snapped back, finally registering Johnny’s state: the dark, dried blood crusted on Johnny’s sleeve and shirt, the tear tracks cutting through grime on his cheeks, the crumpled paper in his fist. "Jesus, Johnny," Daniel breathed, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rasp. "What the hell happened? Why are you covered in—" He stopped dead, staring at the note in Johnny’s hand. "What is that?"
Johnny didn’t answer, couldn’t answer; he just held out the flimsy notebook paper, his hand trembling violently. Daniel snatched it, his eyes scanning Robby’s jagged handwriting rapidly. "Oh god," Daniel whispered, the color draining completely from his face as he read about the pills and the exhaustion. He looked up, fury and horror warring in his expression. "Oxy? He was on Oxy? This whole time?" Johnny flinched, a low sound escaping him, his gaze fixed on the trauma bay door where Robby lay fighting.
"How could you not see this, Johnny?" Daniel’s voice cracked, shoving the note back against Johnny’s chest. "He’s your son!" Before Johnny could form a reply, the trauma bay door hissed open and the doctor stepped out, his expression etched with a new, chilling gravity that silenced them both.
Johnny’s head snapped toward the doctor, Robby’s crumpled note forgotten in his fist. Daniel froze mid-accusation, the fury draining from his face as he registered the doctor’s weary posture and bloodshot eyes. The sharp scent of antiseptic intensified as the doctor cleared his throat.
"He’s stabilized," the doctor began, his voice raspy, "for now. We got him back, but the extended hypoxia during the cardiac arrest caused significant oxygen deprivation to the brain." Johnny swayed, the words "oxygen deprivation" echoing alongside the phantom flatline shriek still haunting him. Daniel stepped forward sharply. "What are you saying? Is he brain damaged?"
The doctor rubbed his temple, avoiding their stares. "It’s too early to know the extent of the neurological impact. The overdose complicated everything – the Oxy suppressed his system, the Propofol pushed it past the edge." He paused, letting the blame hang heavy in the air. "His brain swelling is concerning. We’ve induced a coma to reduce metabolic demand and give him the best chance."
Johnny’s knees buckled; he caught himself against the cold wall, Robby’s dried blood flaking from his sleeve. "Chance?" he choked out. "Best chance for what?" The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps overhead. The doctor met his gaze finally, his expression hollow. "For any meaningful recovery." The word "meaningful" landed like a physical blow. "He might wake up," the doctor continued, softer now, "but we can’t predict if he’ll walk, talk… or recognize you." The heart monitor’s steady beep from the bay felt obscenely loud in the silence. Johnny slid down the wall to the floor, Robby’s suicide note a damp, crumpled weight in his hand. The doctor turned away, his parting words slicing through the sterile air: "Prepare for the possibility he’ll never be your son again."