Ethan

A hidden bystander watches a paramedic work.

 

     Ethan surveyed traffic from the passenger seat of the ambulance. Sirens, the singers in Greek mythology who lured sailors to their doom, announced all was not right in the world.

 

     Motorists reacted with the sluggish panic of disrupted routines. A minivan deferred right, a car pulled left; another simply hit the brakes and froze in place. A pickup truck, mistaking the opening as its God-given promotion to pole position, rumbled down the two-lane highway oblivious to the missile approaching from behind. Samantha, Ethan’s partner and driver, blared the air horn �" swerved �" and passed.

 

     The ticking of the van’s alternating headlamps provided a metronome for Ethan’s thoughts: left turn at Madison, consider atropine in cardiac arrest management, watch the rusted Cutlass Supreme speeding through the intersection.

 

     The side window was a blur of closed restaurants and convenience-store pharmacies. Ethan felt his hatred of modern living swell. Consumers ravaged the city during the day, then fled to their isolated, insulated cocoons at night. Butterflies rare, caterpillars to spare.

 

     Samantha holstered the CB microphone and lurched the van into a driveway. Both occupants dismounted with efficiency. Gloves. Radios. Flashlights. Medical bags. Doors and breaths were held as strangers ushered them inside.

 

     An obese woman in her late forties slumped in front of a couch. Ethan pressed two paddles against her mottled flesh; a green line wavered across the monitor screen.

 

     Samantha squeezed a rubber bag, forcing air through a breathing tube into the woman’s lungs. The woman’s breasts heaved above her thin, ripped-open nightgown with each ventilation.

 

     Ethan popped the top off a syringe and squirted epinephrine down the tube. Sweat glimmered in his hairline as he performed CPR, felt the crunch of ribs breaking beneath his obedient pistons.

 

     Damn!

 

     Fourth heart attack in three weeks of calls. He cursed himself for being a crap magnet.

 

     This is a dying room, not a living room.

 

     Ethan glanced at his surroundings while he compressed the woman’s sternum. Shelves displayed old-country knickknacks and a small certificate in illegible script. The room was littered with props of unfinished living. Ethan imagined Death lurking in shadows next to the curio cabinet, a vulture waiting for warriors to leave the carnage of battle.

 

     The paramedics wrestled the woman onto a metal gurney and rushed her outside, family in tow. In the vacant darkness, the cabinet glass added a spectator’s thoughtful reflection to its collection.

 

 

Reviews

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I loved the way this was written. It felt to me as if the pace dictated thetone, much like one would find in a work of poetry. It felt like adrenaline was pumping through my veins, especially during the opening couple of paragraphs.