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Dr. Benton Vaughn</center>


"You are pathetic." Justin was snarling at Benton, stepping around his crumpled form, to storm into the bathroom that was connected to their bedroom.

Blood was smeared across his forehead and neck, desperate fingerprints imprinted on his skin, trying to both push him away and choke him though it was to little avail. That much was obvious where Benton laid, choking on the blood that was pouring from his nose, trying to stand on a broken leg with a broken arm and getting nowhere fast, like a wounded bird. Splashing hot water over his head, his neck, down his arms -- it would have been so much faster to shower, to wash away all of the red evidence, but he would probably just be carrying the pathetic bastard to the hospital, so what was the point? To make it look like an accident, that was the point.

Everytime he passed Benton, sobbing into the once pristine cream colored carpet, the urge to vomit rose in his throat. It wasn't pity that choked Justin, it was disgust.

"Call an ambulance before you bleed to death." Lighting up a cigarette, he kicked the phone toward Benton, taunting him in a way because it obviouly didn't work. "Fuckin' pathetic." Sucking down the cigarette more quickly than could have possibly been healthy, he flicked it at the form of his broken boyfriend.

Justin had no sympathy -- he had no soul, that was what Benton decided long ago, but escaping the soulless is even more difficult than anyone else. Broaching the subject had provoked Justin's temper, and he pushed him down the stairs, where Benton shouldn't have placed himself in the first place. "Then leave me, see if I care!" When his leg snapped at the knee with a sickening pop, Justin knew Benton wouldn't be getting away. Anger fueled him, anger that his lover wanted to leave him, anger that Benton wouldn't even listen to him --

When the blood spattered against the wall, and Benton went limp, the only reason Justin stopped was because he thought the coroner was dead. What a predicament that would have been.

Crossing his arms over his broad chest, Justin watched Benton sputter and choke. Then he laughed. Just laughed, cold and hollow, until he was nearly doubled over with it, his long blond hair obscuring his features. "Oh God, man..."

That was the last thing Benton heard, before the door slammed shut and he was left to die, very quietly.

Present Day
The staff that was still employed at the hospital never got over the day that Dr. Benton Vaughn, the quiet man who was always calm and in control of even the most chaotic situations was wheeled into the emergency room, near flat lined. His soulful brown eyes were rolled back into his head, jet black hair was matted with blood and his arm was at such an unnatural angle that even the seasoned nurses gasped.

They still filled the newcomers to the staff in on the tragic story that was Dr. Benton Vaughn. Why was he always so quiet? Did he always stutter like that? And most importantly, the women wanted to know, was he single?

"Gay, tragically." That was always the response that the dejected candystripers got. "They're always gay or married."

And that was the story of Benton Vaughn. A lifetime of abuse and all he could do now was live his life quietly with the corpses until the end of his days. Whenever anyone heard the story, they didn't question his decision to become coroner. Why not? Corpses didn't hit, they didn't abuse him, corpses didn't make fun of his stutter, they didn't let him down. They stayed dead. They were predictable.

Benton liked predictable, he liked stable, he liked having absolutely no surprises.
...maybe that was the source of his depression.