Light ► JACKSON AVERY

chapter three

THE ATMOSPHERE FELT WEIRD AND TENSE. Electricity buzzing in the air, in people's ears ready to shock someone. It wasn't like it used to be at Seattle Grace. One wrong word and you would be out. Done. Finished. Out of the game. There was no time for second chances and every single person working there knew it. Everybody was constantly scrutinizing everybody. There was time for mistakes. Fellow colleagues would stand behind you, waiting for you to mess up and make a mistake to then dance around your body, glad that it was you who messed up and not them. They would even smile while doing so.

It wasn't like that before. Before, there was time for jokes. Colleagues would often sit around, talking about their ordinary lives, cracking jokes left and right. There was laughter filling people's hearts. The smiles on people's faces were genuine. You knew they meant it when they gave you a dazzling smile. Currently? Not so much. Before, work didn't feel like a chore, because you would be surrounded with people who cared about you. Currently, it felt like a boxing tournament — circling around your opponent, ready to strike them down with a good punch.

Layne Sung let a breath of air escape past her lips. She brushed a couple of loose strands of hair out of her view. She was crouched down — trying to keep herself balanced on the tips of her toes — in front of the cabinet housing all of the charts of the patients on that floor. The white binders with 'SEATTLE GRACE HOSPITAL' in big letters on it were thrown everywhere, scattered across the floor. Her fingers traced the letters, "Probably won't be like this for much longer." she muttered to herself. Would she still be there? To see the change? She hoped she would.

Please.

She cleared her throat as her eyes blinked rapidly. Layne collected all the charts and made a little tower of them, before putting them neatly back into the cabinet one by one. She didn't like messes. She liked it neat and clean. Her mother was probably partly to blame for that characteristic. When Layne was younger, her mother would often nag at her, telling her to clean up her mess. "I don't understand how such a petite girl could make such a mess."

Young Layne used to not listen and let the mess become bigger and bigger. Clothes would make up a makeshift carpet, mugs and water bottles hiding her desk and pairs of shoes would end up being separated from each other. She would only shoot in action when her mother would threaten her with "If you don't clean it up right now, you won't be getting food tonight." However, as Layne grew up, she no longer needed her mother to tell her when she should do laundry or clean her bedroom. She realized that keeping her surroundings clean was easier than cleaning up a whole mess. She didn't even mind cleaning anymore, finding it rather soothing.

"What are you doing?"

Layne quickly turned her head to face the noise. Her hands shot out to touch the floor to make sure that she didn't topple backwards. Imogen Miles stood behind her, arms crossed over her chest with a stern look on her face. Layne looked back with her eyebrows raised, "Huh? What do you mean?"