On a muggy, Minnesotan night, a man searches for an escape but meets the devil instead.
Shoutout! Thanks to my brother for his paramedic knowledge and educating me about the differences between an EMT and a paramedic. You’re the real MVP here.
The light at the bus stop flickers, a sickly beacon attracting hordes of swarming mosquitoes. A man slumps against the cracked glass of the vestibule. If not for the occasional drug-induced twitch, he could have been asleep. Or dead. Just another junkie who missed his bus and passed out on a hot, humid night in North Minneapolis. Just another forgotten face who will never make the news. Just another didn’t-try-hard-enough man who deserves the scorn of those who never knew him and never wanted to take the time.
As euphoria-inducing tar floods his veins, images flit across his closed eyelids. Ice cream dripping down his daughter’s chin. The smile of his wife at their wedding, beaming up at him. All gone now. Grief wracks him and he moans in anguish before the ketamine chases the memories away.
Someone sees him. Someone cares, just a little. Someone is willing to take fifteen seconds to dial 9-1-1 and let the operator know there is someone who needs medical attention.
Whomever the someone is, they don’t stick around. Maybe they need to get dinner on the table. Maybe they have a date. Maybe they feel they have done all they need to do.
The nearest hospital, North Memorial, is seven minutes away but the ambulance takes nearly half an hour before careening around the corner and screeching to a halt in front of the bus stop of last chances. Before the engine quiets the driver, a curly-haired EMT, bounces out and rushes to the addict’s side. She kneels next to him, gently wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead before taking his vitals. She forces down tears of sympathy for the forgotten man and tries not to think about what will happen the next time his demons catch up with him.
The man stirs and thrashes out. His eyes fly open and his dilated pupils paint the devil’s face over her angelic features. He screams and curses and tries to flee but his poisoned limbs trap him. The EMT whispers “just hang in there” as she motions for her partner to help. She’s too small to lift him alone.
The paramedic in the passenger’s steps out, slowly, and surveys the scene. He listens to the EMT’s calm, soothing tone. He sees terror flicker in the junkie’s face.
He smiles a languid smile and takes one step forward. And another. He strolls to the back of the ambulance and swings open the doors. He is in no rush. Weakness deserves no reprieve.
Ducking into the vehicle, he pulls out his first-in bag and unloads the stretcher. He takes thirteen steps until he’s at his partner’s side, looming over her and the now-gibbering man.
The paramedic smirks but the EMT doesn’t notice. When he says “looks like another ketamine overdose” she nods before scurrying to the ambulance to prepare for the rush back to the hospital.
The paramedic takes over. This is his time now.
He bends so his ear is close enough to the man’s lips to feel his breath and hears a raspy, “thank you” before madness overtakes the man again and he flails his fist, landing one in the paramedic’s gut. The paramedic doesn’t mind. He is used to violence.
Instead he tuts like a stern mother. “Now, now Harold,” he bends over the now-convulsing man. “How very nice to meet you.” His voice is deep. Dangerous. Melodious. His whisper crawls into the twitching man’s ear and buries deep in his consciousness. Harold doesn’t ask how the man knows his name. The thought doesn’t even cross his addled mind.
The paramedic takes a knee. “I cannot let you die here.” Harold smiles crookedly, serenaded by the voice which has transformed into a blue buffalo dancing on the moon. “At least not yet.”
Harold’s stomach drops and the buffalo falls off the moon, screaming.
The EMT returns from the ambulance, looking anxious, and helps the paramedic bundle Harold onto the stretcher and into the transport before she retreats back to the driver’s seat, ready to race him to safety. The paramedic stays in the back to tend to their charge.
He looks at Harold, tilts his head and grins. “Tell me. Do you know what true pain is?”
Harold tries to shout for help. Tries to get the EMT’s attention. But the medic’s hand is on his mouth. Stifling the sound. Smothering his breath. “Look outside, Harold. Look outside and say goodbye to the last place that you will have ever had a choice.”
The paramedic closes the door and for a moment all is black, before the too bright lights of the ambulance flicker on. Harold thrashes in his restraints, finding the last reserves of his strength and snaps one strap. Some muscle memory from his boxing days kicks in and he balls his hand into a fist and flails at his captor.
But it’s been decades since he landed a punch and he misses. The paramedic dodges him easily and waggles a finger. “We’ve talked about this already. I’m not going to tell you again.” He straps Harold down, cutting off circulation to his hand and revisits the other straps for good measure.
A tear gathers in the corner of Harold’s eye. Sanity creeps in. Horror will do that to a person.
Harold blinks and the tear rolls down his weathered cheek. The paramedic pierces his flesh with a long needle and tells him that this is his penance. Retribution. Harold wonders what crime he committed as cool fluid spreads into his veins.
The paramedic checks his watch. “Seven seconds before you are paralyzed. Any final words?” Harold stares at him, mouth gaping like the sunnies he used to catch and fry. “Nothing. Interesting choice.”
He hovers for a moment more, watching blind panic rip through Harold’s rigid figure. He marks the instant when limbs, then lungs, turn to stone. Harold’s lungs burn and fight to expand, to contract, to do anything to welcome precious air back into them but they remain frozen.
Cozying up next to him, the paramedic positions himself just so, to make sure that Harold can see him through his paralyzed eyelids. People underestimate the value of blinking. The paramedic does not.
“Astonishing what 180 milligrams of succinylcholine can do.” The paramedic muses as he wrenches open Harold’s jaw and rams an intubation tube down it, tearing throat tissue as he goes.
When oxygen flows once more into Harold’s starved lungs, the paramedic whips out a ballpoint pen and begins to write. “Documentation is important, Harold,” he says. He twirls the pen in his left hand. “For instance, right now I’m writing down that I followed protocol. A paralytic for holding you still, plus a sedative for the pain, plus intubation for air. But,” he leers at Harold, smiling wide. “Ketamine,” he jabs Harold’s sunken chest accusingly with his finger.
“Plus succinylcholine,” he gestures to Harold’s frozen figure.
“Minus sedative,” he empties a syringe, splashing the pain reliever uselessly on Harold’s neck.
“Plus intubation,” the paramedic squishes the oxygen ball, forcing air into Harold’s lungs one last time.
“Plus me.” The oxygen ceases.
“Equals Judgement Day.”
The paramedic leans back and relaxes. It is best to enjoy moments such as this. A moment of peace before the ambulance arrives at the hospital. He smiles. He loves his job.
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Substance use is a real and tragic disease. Too often the people struggling from it are further abused and preyed upon . Please consider donating your time or resources to help people in recovery reclaim their lives.
Places to donate in the Twin Cities:
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Originally submitted to the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge 2019, Round 1
(edited since thanks to the gracious feedback of the judges)
Yorumlar