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Juanita runs past me in tears.
“Juanita, que pasa?”
No answer.
There’s a lot of commotion in the ER, more than usual. It appears chaotic over there. Jimmy can use some help.
Generally, there isn’t much that happens here that would stir us outside the norm. We get everything here; shooting victims, knifing victims, domestic violence, hell, sometimes a skirmish will break out right in there in the ER (which is quite convenient for whoever comes up on the short end). But working in a hospital, one tends to get used to the pandemonium.
Unless it’s personal.
The doctors, nurses, and aides are doing their best to clear a path as onlookers crowd the area. Between me and Jimmy, normally just one of us is stationed in the ER while the other patrols the hospital, but when something like this happens, it becomes more of a two-man job. “Jimmy, what’s going on?”
“Oh shit!” Not exactly the way to welcome a helping hand. In fact, he’s breaking from the crowd to intercept me. “Stay here, my man. Stay here.”
“Stay here? What do you mean, stay here? I’m here to help.”
He looks shaken. “Nah, man, it’s okay, I got it. Just take it easy.”
“What do you mean, take it easy? What the hell is happening here?”
A blood-spattered gurney bursts through the doors. Normally, to get through I’d have no problem flinging Jimmy across the ER like a rolled up newspaper but that hardly seems necessary. From the blood all over the gurney I can tell something happened to somebody, but—
The scent! The blood!
“Jimmy, get out of the way!”
“No, man, don’t,” pleads Jimmy as I effortlessly shove past him and follow the gurney.
“Georgie, step aside!” orders Dr. Roehning as I try to get a view. I push him aside, too.
Adam, a tall, muscular orderly tries to intervene, but he is no match for someone who has seen his share of death, including his own.
The gurney stops, not because the EMT’s have stopped pushing, but because I stopped it.
The face is unrecognizable. Her once full, sensuous lips are split in four different places, exposing a row of teeth that’s been almost completely knocked out. The swelling of her blackened eyes forces them completely shut. Her face is deformed into a shape that I never imagined possible. A genetically resistant whisper seeps through my barely clinging projection. “Veronica?” Blood pours freely from a large open wound exposing her skull, but it activates no hunger, only the intensifying tone of Los Ruidos. She lays motionless, barely alive. I whisper her name again. I was there for her a couple of nights ago. I wasn’t tonight.
“Dammit Georgie get out of the way!”
Adam pushes me aside and takes the gurney. From behind, a hand takes me firmly by the shoulder. It’s Jimmy. No need to shove him aside this time. I’ve seen what I needed to see.
What in the world was I thinking? I am not alive. I do not have the right to interact with others. I do not have the right to experience friendship nor do I have the right to love. I am dead. The more I love, the more I try to be a part of the lives of humans around me, the more death I bring. Death brings more death.
In Veronica’s case, she’s still alive—barely. How she will come out of this remains to be seen. On the other hand, there is one thing that be counted on, one thing that is certain. Orquesta La Luna is going to very soon have to find themselves a new trombone player.