The gut wrenching screams and moans got into my head leaving me crazy after my shifts. Many have their limbs missing, some left without a face. I have declared many deaths, looking down at my watch while my partner puts the cloth over their limp body. Why me, why do I have to be the last person these poor people see? I am scared to go outside. I can see the dead, life less, innocent people lying in the mud. The sky is a light, boring gray, filled with the smoke of the life-taking bomb. Depression has taken over my body, filling me with darkness. Our beds in the ER are rusty giving my body a creepy feel. Its crowed giving no space to breathe, every breath I take gets me closer to death. At the cold creepy night all I hear is the creaking of the old, rusty cots. I try to keep positive but the thought of death brings me down. I stair out the window, seeing dirty bags full of unidentified bodies, to think how painful it must be to be blasted by the powerful blast of that bomb. I hear the doors rushing open, “We got a live one!”. I rush towards the door grabbing a cloth with old rubbing alcohol. They roll him in on this old and rusty stretcher. I gasped seeing the poor man holding on for life, with no legs and one eye. He tries to talk but I tell him to save is voice as I hold his crippled, bloody hand...
