Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Asculation ❯ Asculation ( Chapter 1 )

Warning: Major oozes of angst, graphic descriptions, OOC-ness...

Pairings: None really, just a very brief 5xM, but then again, not any real action.

A/N: I am sooooo tirrrreeedd....but this idea popped into my head and this is it. This is just a one-shot, but I'd just like for people to know about the other side of rescuing and saving lives, the side that most don't really know about. This just gives ya an idea of what people in emergency situations experience, and it's quite sad, actually. Ya'll read/seen "Bringing Out the Dead", right? Right?! "Rescue Me", maybe?! (I haven't-sux to not have cable). A lot of emergency personnel experience it-it's really depressing. BUT here you go.

Asculation

Duo Maxwell wasn't grinning as usual when we pulled up to the small, one-story off Winnemucca Ranch Road. The blues and reds of emergency vehicles lit up the early morning, as well as the constant buzz of radios, fire, EMS, and police alike. When we climbed out from our bench seat Ford, the lights flashing on top, I immediately recognized the house. The Changs lived there, and had for the past four months. I recall them from the Lake Bar and Grill in Spanish Springs as a cheerful foreign couple that had eagerly exclaimed over their hamburger and fries. We were called once to this address a couple of days ago because Meiran Chang was suffering from the deteriorating effects of a terminal disease, and her husband, Wufei, had panicked when she wouldn't wake up that morning. Despite the Do Not Resuscitation order, which he'd ripped up before our eyes and commanded us to proceed with saving her, we'd brought Meiran back to life. At the time, I didn't note any signs of a crumbling relationship, nor did I ever notice any signs of domestic abuse.

But the call over our pagers had announced a possible suicide, possible domestic battery. With the police currently involved, it was something to the possibility of both. I adjusted the med-bag that I'd taken with me, and eyed the rest of the responders-the Regional Emergency Medical Service Ambulance crew was there, as well as the rest of the Station 29, which were a group of volunteers from Palomino Valley. The crew members were talking with each other anxiously, the early morning cold visible as they breathed. They wore fleece pullovers and logo uniforms while Duo and I wore hastily thrown on jeans and sweaters. As First Responders, we probably weren't needed, as the REMSA crew were levels far above us, but they did page for volunteers to stand by, so here we were.

Duo, familiar with some of the state and highway patrol, lit up a cigarette and ventured over to a small group posted nearby. Apparently, no one had gone into the house yet, as no one was sure of the situation. The call had reported two gunshots, and they cops were arguing amongst each other on who was going to go in. It was cold, and I was cold, vaguely annoyed that I'd been called out just moments before falling asleep. The red and blue lights of the emergency and police vehicles were disorienting me. They were wholly unnecessary for this situation. Everything seemed cut and dried, and yet they wanted to announce to the rest of the valley that we had sudden business here. It just invited the gawkers to drive by on the single lane unpaved road. The main road, Winnemucca Ranch, was just now suddenly receiving cars coming off of State Route 445. People really didn't have business this way-they were just curious as to what was happening. As much as it annoyed me, it was out of my control. Human nature dictated that we gawk at others' pain, to reassure ourselves that what was happening there will never happen to us.

It still annoyed me to no end.

Duo walked back over, braid being flipped over his shoulder. "No one's answerin' the phone," he said with a shrug. "They're going to send a couple of guys in. They think they're dead anyway."

I grunted and pulled my shoulders high in an effort to keep warm. Damn Nevada and its cold. I hated the place-I wanted to move back to San Diego, but Middie, my girlfriend of the last four years, was happier here. While I contemplated leaving her for my hometown, I suffered here as a First Responder for Station 29. It was only something of an afterthought when I enrolled into some classes at Truckee Meadows Community College in the emergency medical field, just to pass some time as I worked in Sparks as a nursery laborer. It was okay at first, I suppose-running out at the sound of the pager alerting me to some med or accident, but then, after I saw more and more of the goriness of every scene, it just wasn't the same. It would never be the same. The ghosts of those I lost seemed to follow me-along 445 when I drove alone at night, passing by an accident scene with a fatality, or moving through Albertson's and passing by the elderly man I had lost while trying to revive him. It all caught up to you, no matter what you did to keep them away. They stayed with you even after you left the scene.

"We'll just wait an' see, I suppose," Duo was saying as he lifted the cigarette to his lips. "Maybe they'll let us see the crime scene."

"Not with those guys here," I said, gesturing at the REMSA crew.

Duo was twenty-three and fresh out of the firefighting academy. He was waiting for Reno to begin their yearly recruit, and in the meantime, gaining some experience as a volunteer. We often teamed up together because he happened to be my drinking buddy. We were still suffering from last night's effects at the Bar and Grill, but were sober enough to avoid scrutiny from the others.

"I'd never seen a guy with his head blown off yet," he continued.

I grunted again. "You don't want to. Seriously. It's one of the nastiest things you'll ever see."

"Like that 10-50 last week? The decapitation by tractor?"

"No. More like...the hunting accident last fall."

"Oh, the guy that thought it was funny to shoot at his friends near Jigger Bob?"

"...Yeah."

Duo shuddered as he recalled that grisly scene, but exhaled smoke as we watched a group of policemen work their way into the locked front door of the house. After much shouting and warning, the door was kicked in, and the house was swept by the various law enforcement. After awhile, they were calling us in. We followed the REMSA crew inside because we had nothing better to do.

The house was still the same as I remembered-hand sewn curtains, immaculate furniture, and a funny spicy smell that left with me and stayed on my clothes no matter how many times I'd washed and soaked it in Bounty. The scene of the crime, currently being taped off, was in the living room. We didn't have to go far. Meiran was on the couch, laying peacefully. It looked as if she'd just drifted off watching tv. Wufei must have come up from her side because half of her skull and her brains were currently decorating the wall above the couch. Wufei himself was at the floor beside her, his own brains decorating the white carpet and a Winchester laying from a limp hand at his side.

Duo took in the scene with wide eyes as the paramedics checked to make sure they were as dead as they looked. I turned and left, feeling the same as I did when I came in-bored, cold, tired. I exhaled slowly and stared up at the night sky. The stars were bright, the sounds of the valley were minimal, and the reds and blues still managed to disorient me.

The next morning, as I sipped at my coffee and concentrated on my French Toast, Middie sat beside me, bringing about the smells of musk and perfume. It made me sneeze. With a comforting squeeze of my thigh, she went about her usual To-Do list-she worked in Reno as a hairdresser with Genesis Salon and Medical Spa off of Virginia, and she usually stayed late to work out at that 24-Hour Fitness club nearby. I suspected she was cheating on me, but I didn't really care. I had lost interest in her, and I think she sensed it. It was hard maintaining a relationship when the other just didn't understand what their partner was going through. I spared her many details of the emergency calls just so she wouldn't be horrified-my work was glorified on tv and left the viewer a little stunned, but when you walk onto a call, a real-life call with actual organs, blood, illnesses and such, it was totally different. I didn't want to scare her, or make her sick with what I saw on the field. I was a First Responder, the lowest on the level of professional prehospital care, but I was often the first volunteer on scene when I wasn't working. I was the one working on the victim before REMSA or CareFlight arrived, so I saw a lot.

After telling me what she was going to do today, Middie kissed me goodbye and left. I didn't have to start work until ten, so I had a couple of hours to spare. Sitting in the worn blue couch in our small living room, I stared at the blank tv and tried to ignore the sight of Wufei sitting there with me, staring at me with that calm Chinese expression of his.

That weekend, we were called to Pyramid Lake, a ten minute drive from the station. It was a possible suicide, and I glanced at the calender posted on the refrigerator door, noting that it was the end of summer, August. Suicides were high at the lake, mostly because one wanted to die peacefully while in full view of the beautiful desert lake. Fishing was great during winter, the summer hot enough to prompt you to drive toward the wide expanse of water for a quick dip. I loved the lake, and I think that it was that particular bit that kept me from leaving. Here, I could ignore the realities of life and stare out at the water, with the minnows jumping at the surface and the sounds of watercraft slicing through the still silence. In San Diego, I would be surrounded by a suffocating population, driven to craziness by the continuous drive for a fake life. Out here, in Nevada near Pyramid Lake, I could sit and relax and forget that I was part of the human race. Here, I could lose myself to my thoughts and pretend that I had no worries.

Anyway, Duo and I drove out to the lake, hearing no other volunteers responding to the call. Sutcliffe was one of the smaller communities of the Pyramid Lake Paiute Tribe reservation, and was the focal point of our meetings with the tribal volunteers. There were only four of them available, but it was a weekend, and everyone was gone. Our station, along with REMSA, was responding along with the Tribal Police, who were twenty-minutes from the scene. The caller had reported that it looked as if a guy were pointing a gun at his head, but as if yet, had not pulled the trigger. We were to stand-by while the police handled it, then move in when the scene was situated. It wasn't as if the guy were hurt, or looking to come away permanently damaged-most of the suicide calls we went out on ended in suicide. Unlike one we had responded to sometime two years ago, where we'd come upon a man who'd ingested rat poison and suffered considerably while everyone read his suicide letter.

Scenes like that one bothered me-these people were looking to get away. They came to a secluded place to die. And yet, some bystander comes along and ruins it all by letting the EMS know, and interrupt their plight. It doesn't matter why they're there in the first place, gun or poison in their hand-it matters that they had their mind set on something. Free will. Why can't we grant them that free will to do as they want? It's not like they're down at the beach, shooting at everyone. They are sitting in their own vehicle, wanting to extinguish their own life. Let them be. If they aren't causing trouble to any other person, let them be.

We reach Warrior's Point, one of the last tourist happy beaches along 445, and the lake is solid flat. Mirror imaging everything around it, it is calm and beautiful, reflecting the sky so that it is absolutely shimmering with blue. I stare at it as Duo maneuvers along the dusty dirt road, cursing because he hit a dip he didn't see. The emergency vehicles are surrounding a single grey Kia Prism, which is parked near the water. Inside, I could see the head of the driver, slumped over the wheel. The Tribal cops are standing near their vehicles, debating over whether or not the driver was dead or just slumped in thought. Duo and I get out, the breeze coming off the water ruffling my hair.

It's kind of cold, so I pull on my pullover and ignore Duo as he begins to smoke. One of the cops, a small Filipino, heads cautiously to the car, addressing the driver the entire way. When he doesn't get a response, he knocks on the window. There is still no response. When he peers in, we see him relax and wave us over. Duo and I know he's dead before we even begin walking.

"Totally sucks, man," he mutters as I pull on my latex gloves, handing him the med-bag. "We're too late. We could've like, saved his life. There's no reason to leave this life. None."

I grunt because he is wrong at all accounts. The cop opens the door, and we see the driver is soaked with his own gore, which drips from his seat and steering wheel. The note lays on the passenger side seat, open and filled with scribbles and thoughtful presses of ink. I take a pulse near the neck and find none. I go through the usual routine of searching for any pulses, touching his wrists, feeling for air beneath the nostrils, but there is none. He is dead.

I pull back, shaking my head as Duo laughs with the other cop over something or another. The cop standing nearby shrugs and radios it in the 10-50 and requests a coroner. I step back from the car and stare at the man that decided it wasn't worth it to live. He was young, maybe around my age. His hair was probably brown, but it was soaked with blood and brain bits. I could see the curves of his skull through the pulpy mass, and could see the rivets of blood as the trails made their way past the collar of his shirt. It smelled of copper and stale body odor, and the man had lost control of his bowels in the process, so the smell was particularly funky. But I couldn't look away. His face was covered by the steering wheel, his shoulders slumped forward. The killing weapon had fallen when the door was open, so I moved away from the vehicle to preserve the scene. Duo wanted to see what the human head looked after a .357 Revolver was through with it, so he and the other cop moved forward to investigate from a safe distance.

I removed my gloves and pushed them through the open canister of a Hazardous Waste container we had behind the bench seat. When I shut the door of the truck, the victim stood there next to me, staring out at the lake with a peaceful expression. I stared at him, noting that I was right with the brown hair bit, and saw features I saw many times at the Bar and Grill. Heero Yuy had been a regular, and I knew he was depressed because he suspected his wife, Relena, was cheating on him and preparing to divorce him. I knew he was miserable because he cried silent tears over his beef machos and cursed whenever someone brought in their own wife and family. He hadn't had kids yet, because Relena didn't want her figure ruined. Heero was pleasant to get along with if you wanted silence. We had fished together here at this very spot several times. I wonder what made Heero chose it for his final resting spot, and wondered, like the others, if he would continue to stick with me.

"That's so terrible, honey," Middie cooed that night when she got home. "What do you feel?"

I couldn't waste her time going about the mixture of feelings, so I shrugged and replied that I felt like shit. It was Saturday night, so she had plans to go out with her friends. She was wearing perfume that I'd never smelled before. As long as she was happy. When she left, Wufei and Heero stared at me, each with an expression of exasperation or annoyance. What did they know what I was feeling? They were dead. They blew themselves away. They had no right to judge me.

I was getting angry at ghosts. I decided to take a drive, and I would hit the lake. I would ignore the stories of ghost highway hitchhikers and waterbabies, Bigfoot and UFO's. I will go and do what I please in order to feel okay again. As it were, I seriously contemplated following through with the others' examples. I felt too numb and then again felt too damn shitty to keep up pretending that I was when I wasn't.

I drove out to the lake and took a low road from the juncture of 446 and 445. I cruised upon the dirt roads, careful over the bumps and dips, and parked near the water. At that, I got out and walked along the shore, side-stepping the softly lapping water. And there, I stood and stared over the darkness of the lake, at the campfires across from me, behind the pyramid. I heard laughter further down the shore at Long Beach, and hear the squealing of tires as someone bypassed the stop sign at the juncture to hit Sutcliffe.

I stared out at the water and wished that things were different. I wished I hadn't seen what I had during this time of my status, and went over the ghosts that continued to haunt me. Even in the darkness, Wufei and Heero stood near the shore and stared where I was, waiting. They knew something I didn't. I didn't want to acknowledge them, the way that I did with the others, but they were there. And they wanted to tell me something I didn't want to hear. Maybe they knew that I didn't want to be alone when I finally made the actual decision. Maybe just knowing that they were there helped me along. I had a gun-a couple of years ago, this small group of robbers had randomly picked houses throughout Palomino Valley and had used both force and guns to get into houses, pointing their guns at the startled occupants while they robbed them. I had taken gun classes and acquired a permit when they were caught. The gun was nothing more than a precaution that I thought I would have to take. Now, it would be my ride out if I chose to go.

I got into my car and reclined my seat. I fell asleep to the soft lapping of waves upon the shore and the feeling of Wufei and Heero just outside my door.

That morning, I awoke to the darkness of early morning. When I blinked away the grit from my eyes, I started up the car to warm it up. After awhile, listening to the faint strands of the Frank Show on 104.5, I maneuvered the vehicle out from the sandy bar and rejoined the dirt road. I ignored the bobbing heads of Wufei and Heero behind me in the back seat and searched out the right road I'd taken to get down here in the first place. When I first saw the vehicle, I didn't register anything. I just figured that it'd always been there. I took a dirt road that would take me to the railroad tracks, the closest I could get to the car. There was a long trail of disruption from the hill that it had lost contact with, and as I stared at the smashed vehicle, I became fully aware that this had happened just recently. It had to have just happened. I wondered how long it had been there.

I left my car running and hurried over. It was lying on its driver side, the windshield smashed and laid out like a curtain against the wrinkled front end. It was a Corolla, an older model. There were various things strewn about the vehicle; Lay's Potato Chips, an empty water bottle, glass, metal, what looked to be a dog dish... I touched the hood, and found that it was cold. It was an older crash, and as I wondered how long it had been here, I searched the front seats for any sign of life. It could have been that the driver crashed his ride, left it, and found his or her way back up to the highway without any injuries. Or they could still be lying inside, covered with dirt and glass, trapped by the steering wheel and the dented door.

I didn't see him at first, because he was covered with dirt. But I heard him because just as I was about to turn and move back to my car, I heard a faint whisper. "Kitty."

I paused and hurried back to the mess. The driver was trapped by the steering wheel, pinned in place by his seat and it was obvious he hadn't worn a seatbelt. Pity. He could have lived.

"Sir? Sir! Are you awake?!" I called as I ventured as close as I could, a little cautious that the car could tip over on me. I fell to my knees before the front window and peered in. The driver's legs were invisible to me, hidden beneath the shifted dashboard. But there was one limp, bloodied arm that curled around the bent steering wheel, fingers curled loosely. I reached out, forgetting that I had gloves in my car. When I touched them, they were cold, hard. I felt for a pulse-none. This arm was either broken or I must have imagined him speaking.

"Kitty?"

No, he was alive. I shifted so that I had one leg underneath me, the other barely supporting me. It was awkward to maneuver through the shattered curtain of the windshield, the broken and damaged bits of metal that had held it in place. I reached in, feeling for him. I found his face, covered with blood, damaged by glass and metal, dirty. I felt for a pulse in his neck, and found one, faint and timid. I was in luck. He may live.

"Sir, how long do you think you were here?" I asked as I surveyed the scene. The car was in danger of tipping on its unsteady position, and as it were, I'd already endangered myself with this precarious advancing. The sand was shifting slightly, so that I panicked when the vehicle shifted. But when nothing happened, I glanced about, trying to figure out a way where I could assist him better. I couldn't continue my assessment from my position because of his being pinned inside while I was outside. I needed help. I didn't have my radio on me-I'd left it to charge on its base at home.

I looked about and saw that from my position, any distance was a long one for help. The road was invisible to us. No one would have noticed him if they weren't on this shore. I reached inside, trying to feel with my hands just how bad off he was. I felt blood, a shifting of bones that shouldn't be where they were, and when I felt about his head, discovered that his left side was just...mush. I knew in my heart that whatever damage he'd sustained here-it was far too long for him to survive. It was only by some state of miracle or curse that he was alive. He must've suffered so much...I retreated from the car, and looked around. There weren't any nearby campers, so I had to run up to the road. Doing so was difficult because the hill was steep, and I ended up on my hands and knees. When I reached the highway, I had to wait over ten minutes-when someone finally happened by, I ran out into the middle of the road, flagging them down. I explained why and sent them to Sutcliffe, where they were sure to hit either Crosby's for a phone, or perhaps someone was down at the Ranger Station.

As they left, I saw the tire marks. He'd completely missed the stop sign, and had forgotten to turn, coming down from 445 onto 446. When he realized it, he'd tried to turn, or stop. He overcorrected, and rolled his car down the hill. I tried to imagine why he'd done so. What had distracted him? His dog? Or did he fall asleep?

Then I turned to run back down. I could hear the young man, still in his teens, calling for "Kitty". Along the way from the road, I passed a dirty mass of fur-I stopped and investigated, finding a very dead pale white terrier. The collar around its twisted neck had a name tag, which read "Sandrock". So then, who was 'Kitty'? Hopefully not another passenger, because as I hurried back, I saw no other body, animal or human.

Wufei stared at me as I bent before the broken windshield once more, briefly letting the young man know that help was on its way. Counting on the call, it would take at least ten minutes before anyone would show. God. And it had been so long-he wasn't going to live. Why? Why did this have to happen this way?

Heero watched as I struggled around the twisted metal, searching for a way to draw him out. There wasn't any. He had to be extricated, cut out. I didn't have the tools nor the training to do either. As much as I wished I could reach in and pull him out, I knew I wouldn't be able to. The twisted metal of the car, combined with the position, made this impossible. I had to sit and wait.

"Kitty?"

"Who's Kitty?" I asked, reaching in, trying to assess his present state of mind. He had not yet acknowledged me. His brain was a pulpy mess, yet he was alive, he was talking. He was breathing. The horror of the situation, combined with my own personal demons, made me sick. I had to lean over and retch violently.

"Kitty?"

He kept asking that, over and over. If he was calling for his dog, it was halfway up the hill, nearly embedded within the dirt. The dog had been flung and crushed beneath the car when it rolled.

"Sir? Who's Kitty?"

He was silent for so long, that I wondered if I'd lost him. When I reached in, felt for a pulse, I found one. He was breathing. He was alive. I shifted so that I was halfway on my stomach, nearly in. His body was set so that his legs were under the dashboard, the left side of his body pressed against the side window, his arm curled around the steering wheel and the other strewn at his right. His head was propped against the corner of the roof near the door. When I caught sight of his face, I saw half-lidded eyes that were a startling color of blue and green, staring with uneven pupils at the sky, visible from the passenger side window. The car shifted, so I had to move. When I did, he gave a startled shout, as if he'd realized that I was there.

"Sir?" he called. He was lucid. He had to be. "Sir? Help! I'm stuck! I can't-I can't get out!"

"I need extrication tools to do so," I explained, watching the unsteady car with unease. I felt so helpless-I couldn't get to him. I couldn't leave him. My mind was on overdrive, methodically listing the immediate procedures I would have to use once the volunteers or paid firefighters from Spanish Springs showed up and got him out. "What's your name?"

"Kitty?"

Not this again...

I moved back into position, feeling for a pulse. It was unsteady, thin. He moved only to hold onto my wrist. "What's your name, sir?" I repeated, feeling underneath the dashboard for his legs. They were caught just underneath the console, pinned against the seat and the floor. How fast was this guy going?

"I need help. I can't get out. Where's my dog?"

"Sandrock? He's...around," I replied, unable to tell him the actual fate of his dog. He was young. He was just a kid. But I'd seen far younger in far worse. Still, it hit me that he'd suffered for some time. He was still alive, and yet, he wouldn't be for long. I was talking to a human being whose life would end shortly after his 'rescue'. It happened many times. But this time....this time felt far harder, far worse than the others. Maybe it was because of my own problems, maybe it was because of the two that stood behind me and watched me silently. Whichever, I tried not to let my emotions get me. Even still, my throat clogged. Here was a young human, alone and hurt, calling for something that wasn't there.

"Who's Kitty?" I repeated as he tried to shift. "Don't move. Don't move! You could make things worse!"

"My head...."

"What's wrong with your head? Can you tell me where else it hurts?"

"My head...feels...mushy..."

"'Mushy'? Anything else? Can you feel your legs?"

"...Kitty?"

"Sir, I need you to concentrate," I demanded, unable to shake the grip he had on my wrist. Damn it, where were the volunteers?! Glancing at my watch, only five minutes had passed. Those tourists had better be reporting this, damn it. "Concentrate on yourself...what's your name?"

"...Sir? Sir, are you out there? I can't...it's dark in here!"

The sun was rising. It was dark, but not completely. I worried that he was leaving. Leaving after suffering. Suffering because he'd wrecked where no one could find him, and when someone could, I could do nothing. My throat clogged and I gripped the hand that held mine. It was hard, cold. Unfeeling.

"Someone! Help! Help me!"

"I'm right here," I said, but my voice sounded funny. It broke. It broke again when I tried reassuring him as he started into panicked gasps and screams for help. He didn't know I was here. He didn't know. Was I even here? Was I actually here? Am I actually doing anything? I looked over my shoulder at Wufei and Heero. Heero stared out over the lake as the sun rose. Wufei stared at the vehicle with his arms over his chest. They said nothing, but they were something. They were telling me something that I didn't want to acknowledge, didn't want to think about. They were waiting. They weren't waiting for this young man. They were waiting for me. They knew that this scene would be my last. This young man, anonymous and a complete stranger, would be my undoing.

"My stomach hurts...I threw up...don't tell anyone, okay? Sandrock? Don't tell anyone...I went pee....I couldn't hold it anymore..."

"I won't tell," I whispered, unable to speak above normal. "I won't tell..."

Then, it fell silent once more. The hand that I held seemed harder. Colder. I twitched and cursed the tourists, the EMS that was supposed to be here. But I had to be realistic. Probably at this moment, they were being paged. But they were taking so long! They were taking so long and this young man was going to die. I had to hold his hand while he called for something or someone called 'Kitty'. I had to hold on even as he let go.

The lapping of the waves on the shore drew my attention. I wondered, as I glanced over my shoulder, past Heero, if this stranger had seen the lake. I wondered what he was doing, what he had planned before he wrecked. I wondered where he came from, and why he had to die like this. Was he so evil that he had to suffer first? Or was this some cruel way of fate that challenged my own demons into rethinking myself?

He shifted once more, and I looked down, trying to press on him, to keep him from moving. But his eyes, sightless before, locked onto mine. The pupils were still uneven. He stared at me in silence, and I wondered if he was even awake. If he were lucid. I watched his lips, dirty and flecked with vomit, shift to form words I couldn't hear. Then I realized that his eyes were moistening, and tears created clear trails through the glass, dirt and blood on his cheeks.

He started sobbing then, gripping my hand with that death grip I was more than familiar with.

"Daddy!" he sobbed, his voice young and breaking. "Daddy! I'm sorry! I wrecked your car!"

"No, no, I'm not your dad," I tried to say as he sobbed even harder. It was breaking me. I was breaking into millions of pieces. My insides were curling and my brain was fully engulfed with unwanted advances of suicide. I didn't want to wake up to this young man's crying in the middle of the night. I didn't want to face him if he chose to follow me. I felt guilt because I could not help him. I felt uneasy because I knew that it was entirely out of my control. And yet, I was the only one here. I could not help him. I could only be here for him when he died. He wouldn't be alone when he slipped away. It was the least I could do, but the trained part of me, that part of me that had taken hours out of my life to learn how to stabilize broken backs and patch up puncture wounds were disagreeing with me, planning out ways to keep him steady when CareFlight would arrive. Damn it. They were taking too long to come!

"I'm not your dad," I continued to say.

He stopped crying at that moment, and focused on a point beyond me. He blinked only because he had to. His grip lessened on mine once more. "I didn't even get to see the lake," he muttered, staring at nothing. His lips continued to move, forming words I couldn't hear or understand.

I knew he had finally slipped away because his eyes never blinked again. I stared at his sightless eyes, a blue/green mixture and hated myself instantly. I hated myself because I was helpless. All this knowledge, this experience, did nothing to help him. He suffered until the very last, and I could do nothing but hold his hand and tell him that I wasn't his father. I dropped my head on my arm and felt myself break.

When the others finally arrived, I had composed myself. I let them know the details of what happened, of when he'd died. Then, I stood back and watched the crew members of Station 17 cut the roof away from the car, stabilizing the entire vehicle by using chains and ropes to hold the car in place. When he was finally free, one firefighter gripped the broken arm and used harsh, ripping motions that tore the body from its confinements. My stomach curdled at the way they treated the body as they pulled it from the car, as if he were merely a rag doll. Sure, he wasn't there anymore-but couldn't they treat it with more respect?

One of the tribal volunteers from Wadsworth, nearly twenty minutes in the opposite direction, complained over that fact. While he and the firefighter got into an argument, I pulled a sheet from the rumbling brush fire truck nearby and laid it over the body. The volunteer used this truck to respond to everything that came over his pager. It was stocked with basic medical needs and all the trimmings to handle brush fires.

They found his wallet somewhere within the car, and identified him. Quatre R. Winner's parents would be notified as soon as they picked a random person among their crew to do the horrible task. I stared at the still body beneath the white sheet and realized that I would never be the same. He was my snapping point. I turned and stared at Heero and Wufei, who stared silently back, waiting. They would be with me, I decided, when I finally fell through with it. They were there this entire time. They were waiting for me.

When I finally returned home, Middie had left a note telling me that she'd gone to brunch with her friends. I went and took a shower, and laid on our bed. I turned my back to her side and stared at the floor. As my mind went through the entire scene with Quatre Winner, I felt my thoughts filter into a cohesive train of thought that led me up from the bed and into the kitchen. It was mid-afternoon, and it was hot. I stared at the clean counters and immaculate sink, and turned away from the kitchen. I passed by Heero as he stared at my med-pack on the couch, and Wufei, who was staring out the front window. They said nothing, but their presence spoke volumes.

When I walked into our bedroom, I searched for my favorite pair of jeans and sweater-shirt. It was nearly a hundred degrees, but that sweater-shirt was the shirt I wanted to be in when I left. I changed out of the sweats and t-shirt I was wearing, and carefully cleaned up after myself. I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and shaved. After all of that, I put on some of Middie's favorite cologne, the kind that I used to wear when I cared. Then, I stuffed my feet into my hiking boots and wandered into the kitchen. I sat at the table and stared across it as Heero and Wufei stared at me from the doorway entering the living room.

I went over every single incident that I'd ever responded to-the suicides, the car accidents, the farming accidents, the fires, the abuse cases, everything....I went over the deaths, the births, the lives that I'd saved. I went over every class I'd taken to get this far, every piece of medical equipment that filled the fish tackling box near my med-gear. I remembered that I had to fill the car gas tank just in case. When I realized that I would have to leave a note to let the others know 'why', I rose from my chair and simply wrote on the Reno-Gazette Journal, "It was too much." Because it was. It was too much. I couldn't handle it.

I walked out from the kitchen and curled up on the bed. Nothing like a nap before carrying out a hard decision. But it felt like I hadn't slept at all. When I awoke, it was nearly seven. I blinked once, then turned over, facing Quatre as he laid beside me, staring at me. He was cleaner, younger, cheerful-he smiled when I faced him. Unable to stop myself, I smiled back. When I left the bedroom, the three of them followed me. I went into the kitchen and picked up the newspaper, rolling it between my hands. I surveyed the kitchen, then out the small window above the sink.

I didn't want Duo to come out to the call-I called him on my cell phone and asked him to meet me in Reno, at the Silver Legacy.

"We'll hit Brews Bros., and then to Bubinga," I told him.

He agreed to meet me there in an hour. The three heads in the back seat bobbed when I drove. I filled up my gas tank at the 7-11 in Spanish Springs, and then drove out to the lake to pick my place to die. I wanted a place where no tourist would find me, where no local would happen upon me. I chose Wizard's Beach, near the Needles at the North end of the lake. Warrior's Point and 9-Mile were filled with campers and such, and the lake was still, calm, reflecting the sky. Night was coming, but I could still see without using the headlights.

I pulled up to the shore and stared out at the lake. It was so beautiful. Clear, shimmering, still. I listened to the sounds of the loons and the pelicans, and to a cow that brayed somewhere in the hills behind me. I shifted the rearview mirror to look at three sets of different faces. They were still there, watching me in their silence, their presence somewhat comforting. They were three spirits that felt like living bodies, complete with personal smells and different sets of breath. But they were spirits-I'd been to each of their death scenes. They were my breaking points, my last calls. I wondered if dispatch would do a final call for me, as they did for others that were in this particular line of duty.

I stared back out at the lake and sighed. I was so tired. It was too much. I couldn't do this anymore. I looked down at the passenger seat and lifted the Reno-Gazette, my final parting words written just above the headline that announced some win in the Olympics. I picked up the heavy Glock 17 and studied it. I didn't want to wake up in Washoe Med., alive and paralyzed with half my face missing. I had to do this right. And because I knew how, I grew confident. I looked up and stared out at the lake as I handled the heavy metal in my hands, maneuvering it into place. It was so peaceful out here. Quiet. Beautiful.

I was glad to have chosen this spot. I'm just sorry that it had to come this way.