The Aftermath

I sat bolt upright in bed feeling the icy cold bead of sweat running down the back of my neck. I look to my left and see my husband curled up in the blanket sound asleep. I looked to my right to inspect my alarm clock except the numbers were just an angry glare of red staring back at me. I couldn’t help but wonder why I had woken up in the manner in which I did. I scanned my brain to try and remember what I had been dreaming about. Nothing. Just black.

Huh, that’s strange.

Just as I lay back down placing my hand on my husband’s chest (a strangely reassuring position that has just become habit) and resolve to drifting back to sleep, that shrill and frantic beeping pierces the darkness of the bedroom.

“Respond to 14732 Richards St. 22 year old male with gunshot wound.”

Somehow my breath got sucked back into my chest like a reverse pressure chamber.

“That is two streets down” I report to my husband, now across the room frantically yanking a t-shirt over his head.

He nods at me, his eyes attempting to reassure me; desperately trying to reassure me that it will be okay.

At this point, I feel as though I am molasses in January. I am trying to will my body to move from where my legs dangle off the side of the bed. The thoughts all flow through my head…

That’s Meggie dispatching. She doesn’t sound frantic. Usually she doesn’t though. Where is he shot? I need more info. Are the police on their way?

Before I realize it, I am at the glass door of my house. I stare at it, knowing that after I pass through, I will be changed forever. We pile into the car, praying for the garage door to hurry up.

“Deputies are en-route to the location.”

I paused at the end of the driveway, willing my foot off the little square peddle and to the longer one that will certainly push my car to the scene. My little red light remains off. No need to turn it on for such a short drive. A little voice in the back of my head tells me not to go there. Don’t go there! I turned to see my husbands face set with determination. Determination not to show the fear that is creeping up his spine. I yank the steering wheel to the left, away from the house with only one light on, void of any police out front. I pull out my cell and try to call to our responding unit. Finally my lieutenant answers. She will wait for us.

My hands fumble as I reach of the car door. I take a second to steady my voice.

“Unit en route with 2 EMT, 1 Firefighter. Update us when police have secured the scene.”

Just as I let go of the button on the radio, I hear a shrill voice coming over the radio, begging us, wishing that we were already there.

“Holy shit! That is Amy. She is fucking on scene!”

Never and I mean NEVER has that unit traveled that fast through the now eerily silent subdivision. Jessica pushed the pedal as if trying to put her foot through the floor, sending us speeding towards the house that I had just passed moments ago. That dark, ominous street sign appears before us. 3, no wait, 4 squad cars sat in front of the house; the lightbars blaring their warning of what was inside. We grab everything, except the suction unit.

All three of us scramble up the dark driveway to the rear of the house. I am forced to yell as I don’t know where they are, there are three doors in front of us. I follow the frantic yell of “In here.” I turn and in a voice I didn’t think I had, instructed my husband to stay outside. Somehow, he knows not to argue with me, but his eyes tell me the truth. He wants to see.

As soon as the door opened I recognized that smell. That lung paralyzing smell, grabbed my nostrils and pulled at them, feeling it in my soul.

I round the corner up the short series of steps it hits me like I ran into a wall. There was Amy, kneeling in the blood. Tears rolling down her cheeks and grasping on to the last shred of composure she has; her gloved hands clutching the sides of a young man’s head.

The blood was winning the battle.

His body was laying in a position that sent a shiver up my spine and the hair on the back of my neck stand out. An officer, kindly points out the hole in the ceiling, another standing over the weapon, guarding it’s position. Jessica, the most experienced of the three of us, knelt down in the crimson puddle. I lock my eye’s with Amy’s, silently letting her know she is doing great and to just hang in there. We move as if robots, protocol programmed into our brains. I hand over supplies crossing back and forth across the room. If I had not been wrapped in that officer’s bear hug, would have ended up lying next to him.

The ambulance arrives… never being so thankful to see those faces.

It feels like hours have passed. Finally, a spine board and straps, awkwardly maneuvering through the house and down the stairs past my husband, the Sentry. The ambulance crew and Jessica race down the driveway towards the running ambulance. Jessica with her feet wrapped around the base of the cot, as if she were surfing in the cool crisp ocean with the hot sun winking down at her, trying to seal the face-piece of his mouth and nose.

I instruct an officer to escort Amy away from the house, away from the blood, away from the smell.

Dutifully, I retrieve the red plastic bags from the unit and deliver a pep talk in my head as I return to the house. It took 4 trips to bring everything back out. Each time I returned, repeating the montra in my head.

The ‘thank yous’ and pats on the back are delivered. The “good jobs” flow from their mouths.

All the lights are on in all the houses now. Sleepy faces peer out the windows into the darkness, trying to assimilate the events. We dutifully trudge back to the station, taking turns peeling our clothes off in the shower and swapping out for whatever we had in our lockers. Our faces speckled with tiny little red freckles.

Incident reports, exposure reports and a phone call to dispatch and then we head home.



...


I laid back down in the darkness pulling the covers to my chin. I feel the warmth of my husband behind me, reminding me that I was safe, but still feeling the chill.

Tomorrow is another day. If I can just get a few hours of sleep, I can worry about it then.

I look over at the clock, adjusting my sleep-deprived eyes. It's time to get up.