The stench of charred human flesh and open wounds filled up the makeshift ward to accommodate the deluge of the subway bomb blast victims.
It was my first day as a trauma nurse and the putrid smell of blood was making me gag.
Concentrate. After all you went through, you cannot botch this up, I told myself, firmly.
I was orphaned at the age of three and changed four foster homes before landing in prison. I was high on drugs while attempting to rob a store. After a night of crying in jail, when the first ray of sunshine seeped through the slats of the tiny window close to the ceiling, I pledged to myself that I’d turn my life around. I was done blaming others for my misfortune.
Seeing people groaning in pain around me brought back memories of past.
I tried to block the tears forming in the corner of my eyes when a lone toddler behind the curtains, caught my attention. He was trying to look at his mother’s mangled body bunched up on the bed. I immediately ran for the doctor.
I so badly wanted to save him from attempting a robbery, 14 years later.
Written for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner
Pedro Fogueras pexels-photo-626164 shadow
All writings on this blog are copyrighted. All rights reserved to solitarysoulwithachaoticmind.wordpress.com or Piyali Roy Bhowmick