the dead

A man died today, or maybe two weeks ago. But at 5:12pm, I made it official.

His pants were off, of course, and his hair was long and neatly styled. At first, I thought he was wearing nylons because his legs were so smooth. He had sumptuous breasts and an attractive figure.

He was in his mid-thirties, sitting--head curled--on the couch in his bedroom. Pictures of attractive, made-up women lined the walls. His skin had turned a greenish hue and was beginning to slough off. His penis was smooth and hairless. It hung, forlorn, drooped between two legs.

The neighbors called because blood was dripping from the ceiling.

I was working with Lisa, but the Angry Black Man was there too--picking up overtime on a BLS tour.

"You need to cut off a piece of his skin and attach it to the call report," he said, sounding nonchalant "it's in the protocols."

I laughed, knowing he was joking.

I had never seen someone who'd been so dead for so long before. I wasn't sure what to do exactly. Should I perform an exam? Check for a pulse? Part of me wanted to. I was afraid that somehow, someway, he wasn't dead and I'd get in trouble for pronouncing him. But I would have been laughed at had I done more than look at him, I knew that. So I pronounced him, observing only his stillness.

I laughed at the pool of dark liquid--perhaps blood--on the floor. I laughed at the man's breasts. I laughed at his bloated stomach and his smooth skin. I laughed because, to be honest, I didn't know how to feel, exactly. Was the man murdered? I don't know. His bedroom was well kept and there were no signs of a struggle. Did he kill himself? Maybe. But why were his pants down?

ABM was grumbling about how he had left his digital camera at home.

I chuckled as I filled out the report. Who was this guy, I wondered. What happened? What was his name.

Lisa suggested we fill out the paperwork downstairs. As we reached the bottom floor in the elevator, several children jumped into the elevator before we got out. A man was with them.

"Did you come for my brother?" he asked.

"3F?" I said, referring to the apartment.

"Yeah," he said, looking down to the ground. "I've been knocking on his door for a week."

"Oh," I said, searching for comforting words. "You should talk to the police."

I walked out into a cold, stiff wind. Trash was blowing in the air. I felt a chill and watched as the wind blew black garbage bags and empty styrofoam cups down the street. They dispersed them into the Bronx night, and I followed them, still wondering what the hell had happened,

Comments

[ems_wench]

Great writing. Ever hear cause of death on this one? Rural emt-b here in Podunk, WV so we usually can get follow up reports on our pts.

[Stacey]

cool blog

[Tyson]

We never hear anything, or almost never. I have no idea what the story was with this guy. I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing, but it is what it is...