i've known i've always wanted to be a servant of some sort since i was a child, and i'd watch CSI reruns with my dad. he'd often ask me, "so, what do you want to be when you grow up?" without fail, my answer would be more or less like, "a person who helps broken people." heck, what did i know? i was six; but, it still mattered. at least to me. i'd usually wander off playing with my toys - making my action figures speak - by this time.
determined to fix cross-sectioned hearts and treat simple paper cuts, i've been a the go-to person from the point of puberty of my year. i listened to all the stories, clutched all the heart-break, and carried my friends and family to and fro dark places. the selfishness of doing a good deed was my secret; the feel that you're the good person in the scenario, that you were the one who helped in a time of need.
the early years of being a paramedic were the best. the thrill of rushing people to ambulances, providing them with CPR was one i never found boring. it wasn't until that ill-fated morning that i began having nightmares...
it wasn't unusual to hear alarms at odd-timings; i've acquired light-sleeping over time. the car accident that took place was quite close to where i was, so i hopped up and drove as quickly as i could. what i witnessed was the most frantic scene i had ever - two cars crumpled into each other as one of them caught on fire. the driver and her friend on the passenger seat were put to death instantly.
on the back seat crooned the worst sound i will ever hear. it was inhumane. a girl was stuck in the vehicle, her flesh being grilled and her skin melting; sticking to the maroon leather seats of the wreck of a car. it was like a ball of paper being set on fire. a pyromaniac's dream. she yelled and shrieked - her vocal chords, death-growling, were amidst a field of high-pitched attempts at survival.
for forty-five seconds, i felt my eyes roll back and my stomach flip, then harden. it was as if i was watching my very own suicide video. i could feel her anguish. i could, but i was frantically frozen. please, i said, put her out of her misery, lord. take away her life! when my colleagues managed to remove her from what looked like her hell, i saw her.
it has never been this hard to describe an image. it still resonates within the bleak corners of my mind. like a checkerboard, her bald head was glowing with a red passion. she was almost unconscious, yet i could still feel the stings of her skin. this woman had lost everything - her nose, eyelids, ears, hair, fingers. she was a perfect, unrecognisable tandoori roast, and i could never muster the courage to look at or cook meat again.
with the struggles in my line of work, many develop an insensitive approach towards life. they find a way to care only about the things that need immediate attention. but not me. i'm an empath. i can still hear my screams when it's a bit too quiet. i can still feel my skin bubble and pop. i can still see myself being scorched. i can still taste the burn.
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