"Bed three," the nurse sitting behind the ER counter said. "The doctor's still with him but you can go in."

"Thank you," Martha said and headed for the room. The ER was subdued – no George Clooney, no one yelling "Code blue!" or "Clear!" – just unknown machines beeping and nurses filling out paperwork and talking casually. How convenient for him.

She reached the door and heard the doctor. "Must have been a thick blade." The doctor sat on a stool next to the bed as she stitched up James' forearm. She was young – early thirties, Martha guessed. Her face betrayed her exhaustion.

James sat with his legs dangling off the side of the bed. He saw Martha and waved her in with his free arm. The roll of paper underneath him made a crinkling sound with the movement. The doctor noticed her, returned to the stitching and said, "Hello."

"This is my girlfriend, Martha," James said.

"Welcome Martha," she said without looking away from the arm. Martha found a chair against the wall, next to a blood pressure machine. The doctor continued, "This was a lucky wound, Mr Quinn."

"How's that, doctor?" James asked, wincing slightly.

"Well, it got you across your extensor digitorum on the top of the arm – it's a pretty meaty stretch for a knife attack. But it was a few inches from severing the radial or ulner arteries – either of which would have resulted in significantly more blood loss."

James continued to look at Martha with a nervous smile. "Lucky me."

Martha narrowed her eyes. Lucky like being paired up in Chemistry? Lucky like happening upon a future President of the United States?

"Frequently injured?" the doctor asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"A cut this deep is painful." She finished a stitch, pulled the needle high, then returned it. "Not to mention the stitches. You seem barely affected."

"Pain don't hurt."

The doctor paused her work and smiled. "That's funny."

James smiled at Martha hopefully, but she was unimpressed. She wasn't sure how or why, but she knew James had willfully put himself in this hospital bed; had scared her to death; had... had put that creep in handcuffs?

The doctor finished. "Well, I'm no Kelly Lynch, but that should heal nicely. The nurse will be by in a little while to talk about after care."

"Thank you, doctor."

On her way to the door, she nodded. Martha reciprocated politely then she was gone. Martha turned her attention to James who sat on the bed with the same nervous expression. The stitches across his forearm didn't seem real – like overdone Halloween makeup. His blue jeans were stained from the bleeding. His maroon shirt appeared unblemished. Maroon – also 'lucky.'

"I could be wrong," James said, "but that does not appear to be the face of sympathy."

Martha was unchanged.

"You know," he continued. "I did just have a pretty nasty ex-"

"Stop," she interrupted. "I know this was your idea somehow. So... what happened?"

"Oh, why couldn't I have fallen for a simple girl?" he joked.

"Stop."

He sighed and nodded his head. "Okay. I waited for Robbie to show up and to be within the policemen's view. I approached Robbie and told him that his shaved head made him look sexy. He pulled out his knife and I let him cut me." He stopped as if it were all so simple.

"Just for kicks?" she pressed.

"No, I wanted the police to arrest him."

"Because?" She shook her head in frustration. "You know what? Just tell me everything. Everything. Don't leave anything out. No more cryptic, half answers."

James waited a moment, then began. "I wanted Robbie to be arrested so he could be tried for assault, sent to prison, and taken off the street." He paused, though Martha could tell from his face it wasn't to evade. He clenched his jaw and broke eye contact. "In past lives, he has..." He cleared his throat. "After I leave for college, he has... sexually assaulted you."

Martha folded her arms defensively. Despite her best effort, the vision of the future memory that will never happen played out in her head – his eyes, his acne, his smell, his smile, his breath, and the pain. She felt the hospital room contract.

"Brutally so, if you want me to tell you everything," he continued. "And I can warn you to stay away from him – to avoid the party where it happens. But then he does it to someone else – sometimes multiple girls before he's caught. He's a monster."

"But... I don't know." Martha wasn't sure what to say, but was sure this wasn't right. "You just decide to... pluck some boy up and just... extinguish him?"

"It's not like I killed him, Martha. He'll get a five year sentence but only serve eighteen months."

"But prison?" She thought of Robbie's face as the handcuffs went on. In addition to the rage and hate, she remembered fear. James had called him a monster, but Martha swore she saw some piece of a frightened child. "And... he'll have a record?"

"With or without me," he said, gesturing with his arms. He winced as he remembered the wound. "And maybe this can serve as a warning to the world."

There was silence for a moment. Martha stared at the medical waste receptacle on the wall. Its biohazard symbol resembled a flower. She broke the silence. "So he has no chance? What happened to your disdain for foregone conclusions?"

"It's just who he is. I even tried My Fair Lady'ing him once and for all my time and effort he does fifteen for vehicular homicide, then another ten for rape."

"But it's just... it's just wrong."

"Well, I've done worse!"

James' raised voice startled Martha. "What does that mean?" she asked.

He rubbed his forehead with his good hand then said, "The life after he raped you – or, at least the last time he did so – I waited for him to turn eighteen. It was an arbitrary distinction, but as good as any." He looked away from her, frowned, and shook his head slightly, as if to himself. "I waited for him to turn eighteen, then I took him. I'd purchased an abandoned lot in the middle of nowhere and kept him there for nine days before I felt he was... before I let him die."

"Jesus."

"Not something I'm proud of." He smiled sadly. "It was a unique experience for me. When your dad called... flying back from Berkeley... visiting you in this very hospital... You didn't hesitate to identify him and press charges which was the right thing to do, but I wasn't able to... The anger was absolute – like nothing I had experienced before or since – so I... relapsed."

She wasn't sure how to respond to the admission. "Sorry. I guess." James shifted his weight and the paper crinkled harshly. He stared blankly ahead. Martha wondered if the debate was over. Where the hell is the nurse? She tried to find something neutral to say, but the unanswered questions persisted. "So you know for certain that in all your lives – all two hundred and whatever, even the ones before you got the call from my dad – he ends up a rapist?"

"No," he answered plainly. "I'm unaware of the earlier lifetimes."

"And there aren't any other crimes you let happen or criminals you know of that you leave on the street?"

"No. I don't intervene in every case. Most cases I let play out, to be honest."

"Then, I'm sorry, but it's not right. I mean, it's romantic or chivalrous or whatever you want to call it, but... But this is personal. This is your thing. Like... like you're still punishing him or something."

"I won't argue with that. You make a valid point – it's not the first time you've made it. But you're just going to have to-"

A nurse entered the room. He wore dark blue scrubs and carried a folder of paperwork. "Mr Quinn?"

"Yes, sir."

"Sorry to keep you waiting. You caught us right on a shift change."

"No problem," James said to the nurse though his eyes stayed on Martha.

The nurse proceeded to wrap the wound and explain the proper way to clean it. James listened attentively as if it were the first time he'd heard the instructions. As the nurse rifled through the forms to find what James needed to sign, James looked at Martha. They couldn't talk about it anymore with the nurse in the room, so Martha smiled and James smiled back. For the time being, that would have to be good enough.

Author's note:

What do you think?  Did James do the right thing?  What amount of guilt does this Robbie hold? If you were Martha, would you react as she did?

Like, totally 90's detail:  The gif is a little off message - the characters are too old and James has zero romantic interest in the doctor - but I couldn't help myself.  I had to pay tribute to 'Road House.'  "Pain don't hurt."  "Pain don't hurt?"  Brilliant!  If I wasn't such a baby, that would absolutely be my life's motto.