(no subject)
Eh, just hammered out this little short tonight. It didn't take more than a half an hour, and I didn't edit it, so pardon the roughness. Really I don't share my work often, but I need to change that for two reasons; I have to get used to people seeing my children if ever I'm to become an author, and Emma's on her last legs so I'm making sure nothing is fed to the abyss should the worst happen.
The note in the flute turned sour as the doctor was disturbed. He was playing his music when a group of men came through the door, carrying a form speckled in blood. Though they shouted and ordered each other angrily, the doctor gently placed his flute down and stood to meet them.
“He needs you, doc,” one man shouted, staring at the sparse man before him.
”I can see that,” the doctor would’ve said had he the chance. The gang began shouting anew, now directed to him rather than to each other. Rather than try to decipher anything in the jumbled mess, the doctor let his eyes talk to him.
There was a shootout, obviously. Three visible wounds, two negligible in the upper right arm, one dangerously close to major artery in the shoulder. No exit wounds. He’s lucky to have that artery missed, the doctor thought to himself calmly. He wouldn’t have had the pleasure of bothering me if that weren’t the case.
As the group brought the inert form into the doctor’s home, one highly-strung fellow rushed to the kitchen table and shoved his arm across the surface in order to clear it for his friend, shattering a vase and tossing the cloth to the ground. The doctor just stood and stared for a moment, and then walked through to the room with emergency cot and his equipment. The excitable youth had obviously done makeshift operations before, and they simply hadn’t realized that civilization had passed them by decades.
They unceremoniously dropped their comrade to the sanitized white cot while the doctor carefully cleaned his equipment with alcohol. The doctor would have to remove the bullets, and quickly, seeing the blood loss. The others hadn’t stopped nattering on since they came, but the doctor was still calm, almost blissful with the songs still echoing in his head.
It didn’t matter that the others watched on in anxious mortality, their friend and collaborator a fraction of a centimeter from death, the doctor went about his job carefully and unhurriedly. The high-strung one screamed, maddened, feeling every moment of life slipping away. The doctor merely continued.
The two bullets were pulled out of his arm, and the doctor began looking at the dangerous one. It was at this time that the music’s memory faded like mist at dawn. His brow furrowed and he looked at the face he leaned over. This was the leader of a gang, the local ruffians. While the others had finally fallen silent as the doctor worked, one gingerly posed, “Is something wrong, doc?” at the doctor’s pause.
Most certainly there is, he thought to himself. So long as I’m careful, I can save this man’s life, but do I really want to? Under the Hippocratic oath, he had to attempt to save him, but perhaps he was better suited dead. How many lives would the doctor save should this hatemonger never terrorize the city again. Yet only God himself has the right to make such a distinction. Within seconds, the tremendous dilemma and moral debate began and abated.
He gently took the bullet in the instrument. Even the merest flinch could put undue pressure on the artery, or worse, cut it. That was all it took to sever the lifeline of this villain.
“What’s happening doc? Is he going to be all right?” one gang member asked, worry mounting as the doctor exited the room.
“We’ll have to see now,” the doctor said as he picked up his flute.
The note in the flute turned sour as the doctor was disturbed. He was playing his music when a group of men came through the door, carrying a form speckled in blood. Though they shouted and ordered each other angrily, the doctor gently placed his flute down and stood to meet them.
“He needs you, doc,” one man shouted, staring at the sparse man before him.
”I can see that,” the doctor would’ve said had he the chance. The gang began shouting anew, now directed to him rather than to each other. Rather than try to decipher anything in the jumbled mess, the doctor let his eyes talk to him.
There was a shootout, obviously. Three visible wounds, two negligible in the upper right arm, one dangerously close to major artery in the shoulder. No exit wounds. He’s lucky to have that artery missed, the doctor thought to himself calmly. He wouldn’t have had the pleasure of bothering me if that weren’t the case.
As the group brought the inert form into the doctor’s home, one highly-strung fellow rushed to the kitchen table and shoved his arm across the surface in order to clear it for his friend, shattering a vase and tossing the cloth to the ground. The doctor just stood and stared for a moment, and then walked through to the room with emergency cot and his equipment. The excitable youth had obviously done makeshift operations before, and they simply hadn’t realized that civilization had passed them by decades.
They unceremoniously dropped their comrade to the sanitized white cot while the doctor carefully cleaned his equipment with alcohol. The doctor would have to remove the bullets, and quickly, seeing the blood loss. The others hadn’t stopped nattering on since they came, but the doctor was still calm, almost blissful with the songs still echoing in his head.
It didn’t matter that the others watched on in anxious mortality, their friend and collaborator a fraction of a centimeter from death, the doctor went about his job carefully and unhurriedly. The high-strung one screamed, maddened, feeling every moment of life slipping away. The doctor merely continued.
The two bullets were pulled out of his arm, and the doctor began looking at the dangerous one. It was at this time that the music’s memory faded like mist at dawn. His brow furrowed and he looked at the face he leaned over. This was the leader of a gang, the local ruffians. While the others had finally fallen silent as the doctor worked, one gingerly posed, “Is something wrong, doc?” at the doctor’s pause.
Most certainly there is, he thought to himself. So long as I’m careful, I can save this man’s life, but do I really want to? Under the Hippocratic oath, he had to attempt to save him, but perhaps he was better suited dead. How many lives would the doctor save should this hatemonger never terrorize the city again. Yet only God himself has the right to make such a distinction. Within seconds, the tremendous dilemma and moral debate began and abated.
He gently took the bullet in the instrument. Even the merest flinch could put undue pressure on the artery, or worse, cut it. That was all it took to sever the lifeline of this villain.
“What’s happening doc? Is he going to be all right?” one gang member asked, worry mounting as the doctor exited the room.
“We’ll have to see now,” the doctor said as he picked up his flute.