Monitors beeped a monotonous drone, nurses and aides shuffled about, the room draped with the shade of defeat. She laid on the table, naked and exposed, IV lines left in veins that no longer pumped with blood. A tech began peeling off EKG leads, and a janitor pushed wrappers(more) and bandages into a biohazard bag.
Death was no stranger to me; two years of emergency medicine residency had taught me to regard him with deference and respect when he stopped by. But there was something painful about this one. Maybe it was because I was giving the orders during the trauma. Maybe it was because she was alive for the first minute she was in the trauma bay. Maybe it was the pleading look in her eyes before she died. But I told myself, this was no new occurrence for me.
Emerging from the abattoir, I stripped off the bloody gown and gloves. I wiped a spot of blood of my shoe with a cleaning wipe, filling my nose with the piercing smell of Clorox. I heard my attending in the background, finishing a death certificate, "...yeah, MVA, she died of blunt force trauma, blood loss, time of death, hold on one minute." He stopped and ran over to me, "I need you to tell the family, I've got to do the certificate and the PE in bed 8 isn't getting better."
I felt myself tense, and started the slow walk to the waiting area. I saw them: a Hispanic man and five girls, from 13 to just a few months, by my guess. He looked concerned as I walked over.
"Hello, Mr. Garcia, I'm Dr. Harrison. I'm sorry..."
He waved me off, managing to say, "No, no, en espanol?"
I held back a sob, eyes watering, "lo siento..."(less)
In español Who makes these triggers? You'd have to be a master literary novelist to come up with 300 words that are worth reading all on the topic of "In Spanish". Either this is a very helpful way to spark creativity and odd ball ideas.
There are people after me. I don't know who, but I know they are. My evidence is not as solid as I'd hope it to be, but I've found small microphones around my apartment, and cameras in my television and computer. I dismantled(more) them and dropped each individual piece into different garbage pales. They will most likely be monitoring my mail, so I write to you in Spanish, in hopes to conceal the nature of this letter. Alas, I know little to no Spanish. Hopefully they will not catch on.
Sincerely, El Hombre sin Nombre. Which my English to Spanish Dictionary has so helpfully pointed out, means "The man without a name."
P.S. Burn this letter once you read it.
P.S.S. Do not try to contact me, for I have already fled to Mexico, where hopefully my Dictionary will do me good. That is all.
No puedo escribir en español muy bien. Pero quiero tratar. Solamente quiero tratar.
Vocales y consonantes son pedazos de palabras. Palabras son pedazos de frases. Frases son pedazos de ideas, y los ideas son un parte de ser humano.
Es difícil ser vivo porque necesitamos comprender un mund(more)o que no tiene razón.
Busco razón. No puedo encontrar razón. Es posible que pueda descubrirlo en otras lenguas.
Quiero ser un caballito del diablo. Quiero volar. Mas alto, y mas. Encima de los cielos. Y no quiero revolver a la tierra por cien años. Y cuando regresar, todo el mundo sentirá diferente. Pero todas las cosas serán el mismo. (less)
"Say it again," Alex demands breathlessly, a pleased hum at the back of his throat as his lover nips at his ear. "C'mon man, put that gorgeous mouth of yours to good use."
His lover smiles and leans in for a kiss. "How cruel," Jose murmurs when the(more)y parted for air, "I knew you only loved me for my mouth." His lips quirks into a little smirk, and the teasing edge to his tone warms Joseph. "Besides, I've yet to hear a similar confession from you..."
"Oh shut it," he grouses, "you know I, uh," Alex licks his lips, voice soft and uncharacteristically shy, "I like you a hell of a lot, okay. So much so that it might be kind of creepy, actually."
"Hey now, I can take 'kind of creepy' any day." Jose laughs and combs his stubby fingers through his lover's short hair. "As long as you don't stare at my sleeping face too much, cielo."
"That's what I what to hear!" Alex flashes Jose a sideways grin and catches his hand, lacing their fingers together. "And babe, you know I try not to make promises I can't keep."
Okay, two can play at that game. Alex narrows his eyes. "Honeybear."
Jose, the smug bastard, just grins, prompting Alex to stick his tongue out at him. "甜心."
"Dude, that's so unfair!" Alex howls while Jose's shoulders shake with mirth. "I only speak one language and maybe some 10th grade French, Mr. I-Speak-Five-Languages-Fluently. Leave the English ones for me!"
"Alright, cariño, no need to get jealous of my mad skills," Jose ducks his lover's indignant swat with a chuckle while Alex growls. "Hey, truce. Te quiero." Jose gives their hands a squeeze, eliciting a fond smile from the other.
She looks up at me with pleading eyes. I know she wants something. She is desperate. Her eyes are wild, and filled with the horrors of her burning, crumbling world.
She cries out wildly. Terrified, nearly mad. I cannot understand a word she says, but it doesn't matter. The(more) sheer raw wound of suffering dealt to her and her family cannot be told in words. In a way, hearing the sounds, with no lingual meaning, spoken and sobbed with such emotion, is more powerful than any words could ever be.
She is defeated. She collapses into my arms. I cannot say anything, so I just hold her tightly a while. Her bleeding slowly stops. She isn't moving.
I lay her down to rest.
There was something seriously messed up with Bobby. He'd met this girl, what, 3 days ago. And now he was in Brazil, with her, because she had booked a modeling job. It was alien to him but he seriously believed he was in love with this girl. Or maybe(more) he was just in love with the idea of her. Or maybe it was her perfectly round, perky breasts, full red lips, and long black hair that fell down to her perfect ass. Fuck, he was hooked.
Bobby literally spoke three words of Spanish. Hola, cereveza, puta. He kept repeating those three words. The locals either laughed at him, or in the case of the old nun, gave him the evil eye. Everywhere he went, they kept calling him a gringo and pointed to blonde locks, laughing. He felt so alone. He had never felt alone. He was the captain of his high school lacrosse team back in Pittsburgh. Everybody loved him. Head of his fraternity at U. Penn. Everybody loved him. One of the youngest lawyers at his firm to make partner. Everybody loved him there too, except he was fired three days ago, for something unreasonable. Fuck them, he thought. He went back ravishing the body of the girl he left everything for.
Everything went to hell in about two weeks. The model he was sleeping with found out the boyfriend she thought had died years ago was alive, so she ran off with him. He still didn't speak any Spanish. He found a bar run by some Australians. Thank god, some English! He had a couple of beers, told the bartender his entire laugh story. The bartender laughed and then proceeded to tell him that they were in a country that spoke Portuguese not Spanish. Bobby was screwed.(less)