02-01-2020, 03:35 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 450px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9pt;"][tw graphic description of injuries & death]
For a few seconds, Elwin congratulates himself on a job well done. The pretty woman wanders away, replaced by the melodramatic little girl, shoving her poor, mangled arm in Freddie's face. That's right, he thinks, shit-eating grin clear on his face as Freddie looks his way.
Someone clears their throat, and Elwin realizes he's attracted a crowd. A crowd of beaten-down, bloody folks, staring at him expectantly. Some nurse broken arms in their good hands, some clutch at wounds that are still seeping blood, and in the back, propped up by two bruised strangers, a man who seems to have gotten the worst of it. Elwin's heart starts beating faster. What do I do here?
His eyes are glued to the man in the back. Blood is dripping into the floor beneath him, staining the hands of the ones carrying him red.
"O-Okay," he stammers, pushing through the crowd to reach him. "Put him down." Gently, the man is laid on his back. Elwin immediately kneels beside him, scanning the man's body to find the source of all this blood. It's not hard, given that a giant chunk has been taken both out of the man's shirt and his body.
Elwin is faced with a giant, sucking chest wound. He can see inside him. "Jesus," he mutters, feeling his hands shake. Part of him wants to ask what happened, but the other part of him knows it doesn't matter now. He needs to do something. Come on, think!
"Get me a plastic bag," he orders no one in particular, rifling through a kit in search of tape and bandages. He'd be lying if he said he knows what he's doing. In all reality, he's never faced a wound this bad before—most of his experience comes from dealing with minor scrapes and broken bones, while listening to his Grandpa's infinite stories about awful, fatal injuries. This isn't someone he can stitch up, set straight, and send on his way.
Someone places a crumpled, clear plastic bag in his waiting hands. Elwin hastily smacks it over the wound, scrambling to tape all four corners down. He knows he shouldn't rush, but part of him is scared this man will just up and die in his arms if he isn't quick enough.
He sits back on his haunches, watching the plastic bag rise and fall where the gaping hole is. One hand rests on the man's chest, counting the shaky rise and fall, eyes turned to worried, hurt onlookers. They don't seem to have too much faith in him. He doesn't know where to go next from here, but he assumes there's not much else to do for the time being. "Keep an eye on him," he instructs someone nearby.
"That's it? A plastic bag?"
Elwin has already turned his back to tend to the next worst-off. He's barely been away for ten minutes before he hears a shout. “Hey,” someone calls. “He can’t breathe!”
What? He covered the wound, didn’t he? He should be fine for the time being, right? Elwin glances over his shoulder to see several people crowding around the man he had just treated. He groans, gets to his feet, and quite rudely shoves someone out of the way to kneel by the man’s side once again. This time, to his horror, the left side of the man’s chest has become distended. What is that? Blood? Air? Elwin doesn’t get how this happened. He covered the wound …
The man’s breaths become shorter and shorter. Both of them are becoming increasingly panicked. All he can hear are sirens going off in his head, frantically searching the man’s chest to try and find his mistake. Where did he go wrong?
He wastes too much time.
“... he’s not breathing.”
Elwin stares at the makeshift dressing covering the dead man’s wound. It’s only then that he realizes what his mistake was.
For a few seconds, Elwin congratulates himself on a job well done. The pretty woman wanders away, replaced by the melodramatic little girl, shoving her poor, mangled arm in Freddie's face. That's right, he thinks, shit-eating grin clear on his face as Freddie looks his way.
Someone clears their throat, and Elwin realizes he's attracted a crowd. A crowd of beaten-down, bloody folks, staring at him expectantly. Some nurse broken arms in their good hands, some clutch at wounds that are still seeping blood, and in the back, propped up by two bruised strangers, a man who seems to have gotten the worst of it. Elwin's heart starts beating faster. What do I do here?
His eyes are glued to the man in the back. Blood is dripping into the floor beneath him, staining the hands of the ones carrying him red.
"O-Okay," he stammers, pushing through the crowd to reach him. "Put him down." Gently, the man is laid on his back. Elwin immediately kneels beside him, scanning the man's body to find the source of all this blood. It's not hard, given that a giant chunk has been taken both out of the man's shirt and his body.
Elwin is faced with a giant, sucking chest wound. He can see inside him. "Jesus," he mutters, feeling his hands shake. Part of him wants to ask what happened, but the other part of him knows it doesn't matter now. He needs to do something. Come on, think!
"Get me a plastic bag," he orders no one in particular, rifling through a kit in search of tape and bandages. He'd be lying if he said he knows what he's doing. In all reality, he's never faced a wound this bad before—most of his experience comes from dealing with minor scrapes and broken bones, while listening to his Grandpa's infinite stories about awful, fatal injuries. This isn't someone he can stitch up, set straight, and send on his way.
Someone places a crumpled, clear plastic bag in his waiting hands. Elwin hastily smacks it over the wound, scrambling to tape all four corners down. He knows he shouldn't rush, but part of him is scared this man will just up and die in his arms if he isn't quick enough.
He sits back on his haunches, watching the plastic bag rise and fall where the gaping hole is. One hand rests on the man's chest, counting the shaky rise and fall, eyes turned to worried, hurt onlookers. They don't seem to have too much faith in him. He doesn't know where to go next from here, but he assumes there's not much else to do for the time being. "Keep an eye on him," he instructs someone nearby.
"That's it? A plastic bag?"
Elwin has already turned his back to tend to the next worst-off. He's barely been away for ten minutes before he hears a shout. “Hey,” someone calls. “He can’t breathe!”
What? He covered the wound, didn’t he? He should be fine for the time being, right? Elwin glances over his shoulder to see several people crowding around the man he had just treated. He groans, gets to his feet, and quite rudely shoves someone out of the way to kneel by the man’s side once again. This time, to his horror, the left side of the man’s chest has become distended. What is that? Blood? Air? Elwin doesn’t get how this happened. He covered the wound …
The man’s breaths become shorter and shorter. Both of them are becoming increasingly panicked. All he can hear are sirens going off in his head, frantically searching the man’s chest to try and find his mistake. Where did he go wrong?
He wastes too much time.
“... he’s not breathing.”
Elwin stares at the makeshift dressing covering the dead man’s wound. It’s only then that he realizes what his mistake was.
[sub]the artist formerly known as hal[/sub]
Hoot gives Hal’s body a hug