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"I've had it," the Doctor said, his tone low and dull.
"It's always like this", I said, (as if this was a consolation)
"They go out for fun, never thinking....." he trailed off.
"I know, it's obscene," I replied.
His face was cherubic, relaxed in death.
Incredible as it seemed,
there were no marks,
on this eighteen year old,
so recently dead.
But, pick up an arm to start an IV,
and the arm is shattered,
a fleshy, spongy thing,
Not the strong muscled arm of a young man,
but broken to bits.
Pick up his head to tilt it back,
open the airway.....
blood, everywhere.....
and brains...
on my hands.
Oh God, I can't take it anymore,
where're the parents???
I'm afraid...
I don't want to be the raven on the battlefield,
the morrigan!
I finish washing the blood off
his serene face......
pillow under the head...
I debate with myself..
should I leave his hand out,
for his mom to hold?
Or should I tuck it in,
so she doesn't feel the grinding of the broken bones as she picks it up.
Good news from the clerk!
No parents are coming right away,
relief fills my soul.....(and I'm ashamed)
I don't have to be the messenger, then.
They live out of town,
they'll see him in the morgue,
the supervisor will go with them.
The orderly comes,
helps with the shroud,
and on his way out with the stretcher,
calls cheerily:
"Its a wrap!"
Graveyard humor,
our only savior for sanity
in a world upside down.
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