Drabble post
Jul. 17th, 2006 01:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rahmiFandom: Digimon Frontier
Character: Nurse in Emercency Room
Pairings: None
Drabble 9: Rhyme
"It was the damnest thing," she'll tell her children for years to come, "This little boy they'd brought in was flatlining; we couldn't get him to breath, let alone get a pulse. We were just about ready to call it when a group of hoodlums ran into the room. And the boy started to breath."
It was more complicated than that, of course, but she can't relate that to anyone who wasn't there. She can't tell anyone, not even her children, that she saw a flash of light when the boy's brother cried, that the dead boy's heart had only started up after the tears had hit his face. She can't tell anyone that the boy had moved, sat up and hugged his brother less than a minute after he'd been clinically dead for five. She can't even talk about it with the doctors who had been there, because you could only stretch miraculous recovery so far before it became bizarre and unnatural.
Still, she'll always remember that day for the children; for the twin boys who had embraced on the gurney, for the four other children who had run to join them. She'll leave them out of the story as well, make them into generic faces that her children can't ever recognize; the blonde to a darkhaired blossoming beauty, the twins to blonds, the others become just slips of the mind, never described because she can't truly be expected to remember them, can she?
She'll wonder if they're all still as happy as they were at that moment, still glowing with youth and the knowledge that they can take on the world and win; she'll hope they are. She's seen enough working in a hospital to know that the world needs more people like them, willing to fix instead of break.
And when she sees them on the news, still together and influencing the world in ways that shouldn't be possible, she'll just smile and keep those children deep in her heart.
The only thing she'll ever tell her children is that the boy lived.
Character: Nurse in Emercency Room
Pairings: None
Drabble 9: Rhyme
"It was the damnest thing," she'll tell her children for years to come, "This little boy they'd brought in was flatlining; we couldn't get him to breath, let alone get a pulse. We were just about ready to call it when a group of hoodlums ran into the room. And the boy started to breath."
It was more complicated than that, of course, but she can't relate that to anyone who wasn't there. She can't tell anyone, not even her children, that she saw a flash of light when the boy's brother cried, that the dead boy's heart had only started up after the tears had hit his face. She can't tell anyone that the boy had moved, sat up and hugged his brother less than a minute after he'd been clinically dead for five. She can't even talk about it with the doctors who had been there, because you could only stretch miraculous recovery so far before it became bizarre and unnatural.
Still, she'll always remember that day for the children; for the twin boys who had embraced on the gurney, for the four other children who had run to join them. She'll leave them out of the story as well, make them into generic faces that her children can't ever recognize; the blonde to a darkhaired blossoming beauty, the twins to blonds, the others become just slips of the mind, never described because she can't truly be expected to remember them, can she?
She'll wonder if they're all still as happy as they were at that moment, still glowing with youth and the knowledge that they can take on the world and win; she'll hope they are. She's seen enough working in a hospital to know that the world needs more people like them, willing to fix instead of break.
And when she sees them on the news, still together and influencing the world in ways that shouldn't be possible, she'll just smile and keep those children deep in her heart.
The only thing she'll ever tell her children is that the boy lived.
