There was a fire truck. Two ambulance. Seven police cars. Twenty-eight bystanders. An overturned big rig. Fifteen cars, single file. And a grieving husband.
Serena laid ten feet away unresponsive on a white gurney. Four medics hustling to revive her while her husband, Marshall examined the confusion from where he laid. There was vainness in the labor of their hands, the work worked to no avail. Only a quick moan. An M sound as if she was singing in a key. When Marshall heard it, he lifted his head. Her moan gave him hope. Though hope quickly died the instant her moaning stopped. A calming occurred. Twenty minute passed and so did she. From his own laying position he understood the woman he'd married near the Gulf of Mexico in the summer of '76, was now dead. Not because he'd saw her die, but the gestures of the four medics surrounded her started at the base of a frantic search to bring her to consciousness to muffled halt of surrender. It was over. Heads shook and bowed. Once the medic with the gray eyes turned to the other and he said, "Call it." The other medic looked at his watch and said, "Two-thirteen." And Marshall heard.
“Serenaaaaah.” Marshall screeched with the terror of a small kitten stretching, both hands towards her to hug her but couldn't for his body would allow him the benefit. Crying so deep that it settled in his wounds and the tears made it difficult for him to see within reality. When he looked on his wife, he looked into the void of helplessness. Two of the four medics walked towards Marshall and he attempted to look around them. The two left with Serena began to zipped in a black bag over her body.
"Wait," Marshall said. Right before her head was enclosed.
"Don't move Mr. Morris." The medic with the gray eyes instructed.
"Let me see her."
"Don't move Mr. Morris."
"Let me see her."
The gray eyed medic motion for the two left with Serena, who wheeled her slowly towards Marshall. He looked to his left, Marshall did. The black bag was fastened to her chest and he followed the zipper with his eyes until he met her eyes, bone wide and chilling. He breathed deeply and felt a new pain. Not from the gash in head nor the bruise in his shoulder. Physical pain was one thing but the pain of knowing death met him at his love was unresting. Marshall looked upon the bag embracing the one he'd made love to and thought about the child she carried and waved his hand in the air. One layer of black covering above two dead lights never to see the light of life again. He screamed again. And they wheeled her out of sight.
“Mr. Sanders please calm down.” The gray eyed medic must have been in charge. He did the instructing. Nodding his head towards another who pulled out a stethoscope and pointed to the other then at the ambulance. That medic ran immediately and slid the back of the ambulance door open. And the gray eyed medic said, "We're doing everything we can."
“Calm down?” Marshall asked for no answer. "Don't tell me shit." Bending the wheels of the small white bed Marshall laid upon, two medics slid him in the ambulance. Three medics accompanied Marshall but not the one with the gray eyes. While the door of the ambulance closed he saw the gray eyed medic standing outside softly gazing at only him when the door closed a shadow of the sheltered ambulance gifted an awful feeling. As if he was going to miss the gray eyed medic. But it wasn't that. Perhaps it was the closing of the ambulance door. Or maybe the chill of the metal objects violating the rips of his skin. But when his body jerked from the attention he'd notice his legs hadn't moved.
"I can't feel my legs," Marshall Senior said.
"We're doing everything we can," the medic said. "You just have to calm down."
"Calm down?" Marshall Senior fanned away an oxygen mask, "I can't feel my le--" -- he suffered through two shallow breaths, violently threw his head back, turned a shade darker and stopped breathing at once.
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