Without wasting another moment, I lift her with my right side and bring her to the closest building. I help the young woman sit with her back against the brick wall and instantaneously ask her:
"What's your name?"
Logically, getting attached to patients is not the smartest move, but I like to know people's names, especially if I am going to help them. I have found that calling an injured person by their name often builds a slight bond between us and portrays me as an overall trustworthy individual. Humanizing the people that I am trying my best to save is one of the ways I use to convey hope. It shows them that I care and they matter.
She replies with a genuine grin, and her voice is playful despite being tainted with pain.
"Cheryl. What's yours, savior?"
"Tanza." I offer her a reassuring smile. "So, Cheryl, can I borrow your jacket? I need something to cover your injury. Once my coworkers get here, they will give you proper medical care, okay?"
She nods. "Sure."
I lean in to grab the black bomber jacket that is tied by its sleeves around her lean waist. Thankfully, she is not sitting on it, so I can easily slip the piece of clothing away and employ it for the purpose I intended for it.
While I am knotting her jacket tightly enough to prevent any more external bleeding, but not enough that the nylon will catch in her ribs, I watch her face. Strands of her long brown hair sway with the autumnal breeze and brush the sides of it, along with the frame of her busted glasses. Without considering the numerous cuts and bruises, her skin appears to be extremely well-maintained. Her features are discernibly precise and proportional. When she isn't suffering and coming out of a road accident, Cheryl must be astronomically beautiful. I doubt her beauty ever goes unnoticed and this is proof of it.
What am I doing?
"Thank you." Her voice is hoarse, yet clearly expresses her gratitude.
"It's nothing," I tell my patient.
I walk away, glancing one last time into her eerily green eyes.
The next victim I spot is a young boy, bawling at the side of a motionless woman. I hurriedly reach their side. The child turns to me, with heavy tears spurting out of his wide blue eyes. He immediately inquires:
"Is she okay?!"
His question surprises me. I could be literally anyone. I guess children truly are more trusting and less prone to apply a filter to what they tell others...
"I can check. My name is Tanza. I am a paramedic."
"Okay, Tanza, do it! I'm Sam, by the way."
"I will, but before I do, are you hurt, Sam?"
"No! Help her, please! I'm fine!"
I kneel down and, without even needing to feel the woman's pulse, I know she is dead. An enormous gash deforms her neck and her face is visibly drained from any life, above her blood-soaked scarf. Regardless, I set my fingers against her wrist to attempt to feel her pulse. Expectantly, I do not find it. Her skin is cold and lifeless. I sigh under my breath, worried about the kid's reaction. In my experience, a simple - yet benevolent - announcement gets the message across compassionately and avoids any possible confusion.
"Is my mom okay?!" he asks, nearly screaming.
I spin to look at him, maintaining my position to be his height. "Your mother is not alive anymore."
I give him time to process the unfortunate fact. While he cries, I add:
"Hey, little one, look at me. Do you see that young woman, over there?" I point at Cheryl.
YOU ARE READING
Fascinating Villains
Action[ONGOING] "You're delusional. I should've seen it before..." ~~~~~~~ Tanza is an agender paramedic. They rely solely on themselves, and the last thing they need is for an incredibly attractive supervillain to disturb their (relatively) quiet existen...
