The Story We Wrote
For the story contest ^_^
It's about my encounter with Mae Bankston, a twenty-two year old girl who just dropped out of McGill university to start writing a book. We meet at the hospital, where she had been shot in the chest. Because of this, she thinks she can never write again, but with my help, we write the book together.
Meeting Mae Bankston
I'm waiting by the counter, as usual. It's quiet. The other patients are calmly waiting for their turns. There is occasional speech, but nothing out of the ordinary. It is dark outside. Maybe about midnight.
Everything seems perfectly in place, until suddenly, a young woman, around 22 (my age), stumbles into the building, wheezing and gasping for air. She is holding a white- now red- washcloth up to the right side of her chest. Her black and grey sweater is drenched in blood. Beside her, an older man is putting his arm around her shoulder to prevent her from falling or losing her balance.
This was terrifying for me, because nothing this serious had ever happened before. I run to their aid and call for all the staff I can. We rush the woman to a room, a room where the more serious injuries are tended. She is hyperventilating and struggling to keep herself conscious. I have never dealt with anything like this before.
I hand her a paper bag to breathe into, then began to ask her questions. The doctors are frantically trying to stop the bleeding. Her eyes scream with terror. They are a deep blue; a cold blue, like crystallized ice.
"Ma'am, what is your name?" I ask, trying to sound professional. I am totally freaking out inside.
"Mae... Bankston." She gasps.
"Wh-what happened? How did this happen?" I stammer.
She winces in pain as the doctor sterilizes her wound. "My...my dad shot me...He was hunting in the woods and I was berry-picking in the woods...he thought I was a deer..."
The man beside her is crying, sobbing quietly with his hand clamped over his mouth. He must be the father.
The doctor next to me looks closely into the wound, then into the woman's eyes.
"We need to get the bullet out of your chest Miss Bankston. It seems to have punctured your right lung. Get the anesthesia, please." He says to the other experienced doctors.
One of the nurses places a mask onto the woman's face. In no longer than ten seconds, her eyes slowly begin to shut. The doctor finally realizes that I exist at this point.
"Oh! Thank you, Isabella, but your presence is no longer needed. I would like you to return to the front desk and to call the police. The man here needs to be formally questioned."
I nod, even though I am tempted to just stay and watch, then I leave. I sprint to the front desk and fumble my fingers over my desk for the phone. My fingers tremble as I dial 9-1-1.
"9-1-1, what is your emergency?" The operator asks. It is a female's voice.
"Yes, this is the Montreal Jewish Hospital. A young woman who was accompanied by her father stumbled in at around 12:00 AM with a wound on the right side of her chest. I've asked her a couple of questions and she seems to have been shot in the chest accidentally by her father."
"What's happening right now?" The operator asks calmly.
"The woman is in surgery. Her right lung has been punctured and the doctors are removing the bullet from her chest."
"Where is the victim located?"
"Montreal Jewish Hospital in room 156 in the west wing."
There is a brief silence, when finally, the operator replies.
"Alright. Interrogators have been sent to your location. Please meet them and direct them to the scene once they have arrived."
And she hangs up.
I remain seated behind the counter. I am steadily looking at the clock. Half an hour goes by before the first interrogator arrives. His badge is proudly being displayed from his belt.
He is wearing a long brown trench coat and short black wool gloves. Underneath his light brown fedora, there is a face. A simple face; olive-skinned, brown-eyed, pale-lipped. His nose is slightly hooked over, and a large black mole rests on the left side of his upper lip. He looks annoyed for some reason.
"Hello, sir," I say from behind the counter, "are you the interrogator?"
"Yes, I am," He says. His voice is deep and raspy, "where is the father who shot the girl?"
"Come with me."
I walk back down the long hallway until I get to the room in which Miss Bankston had been placed. Through the glass, I can see that the woman is sitting up with ease. A large white bandage is wrapped around her torso, and the father is sitting on a chair, talking to her. The woman looks angry, very angry. The interrogator walks right into the room.
The father whips his head around, his eyes are bloodshot with tears, "WHAT THE HELL ARE Y-"
"Detective Morton," The interrogator says casually as he holds up his golden badge so close up to the father's face that it almost smashes it in. "I need to ask you a few questions."
The interrogator and father both leave the room. Instead of following them, I sit down next to the woman. Her face is still red from all the screaming, but at least she is physically stable.
"Mae, right?" I ask.
She nods. She seems surprised that I spoke to her.
I lean back into the chair I am sitting in. "Crazy night, eh?"
"You have no idea." She chuckles.
She is a very pretty girl. Her hair is like liquid gold, like a long waterfall of rich pureness. The curly ringlets rest a little bit past her shoulder blades, which are strongly defined. Her skin is pale; almost like snow. Her cheeks are rosy and sweet.
"So... tell me about yourself." I say casually.
"Well...I'm 22 years old, a literature student at McGill University...well, I was. I dropped out."
She looks down for a minute. I realize that I jumped into something personal too quickly. I gulp and try to say something, but my mind goes blank.
"S-sorry..." I mutter.
"No, it's fine. I just..." She shuts her eyes for a minute. "It's just really recent and I don't think I'm ready to talk about it."
"No, I understand."
There is a long and awkward silence for about a minute or two, when finally, she breaks it.
"If I don't ever talk about it, I'll never let go. I want to let go, so I might as well talk about it." She says with a bright smile. Her teeth a beautifully white. They are also very straight.
"Go ahead! Spill! I'm excited to hear it, and I promise I won't judge you."
She chuckles lightly. "Okay, so, I want to be a writer. I don't want to learn about other writers. I just want to write myself. All I did in that class was listen and listen and listen..." She takes a moment to breathe. I forgot that her right lung is punctured.
"Are you alright?" I ask as I prepare to stand up.
"Y-yeah," She says as she sighs heavily. I sit back down. "Anyways...the truth is, I'm a tactile learner. I didn't learn anything at that school because I could only read and listen to other people talk. If I want to learn, I have to do. I can't just sit down and let people do the work for me."
"I see your point."
"Yeah... So, as a start, I decided to start writing a book. But I never ended up starting it because whenever I want to write, I get writer's block and chicken out of it. Now, there's no hope because that stupid bastard shot me in the chest."
I ponder for a moment, then look into the girl's eyes. They are the most beautiful shade of blue I think I have ever seen. "You know, I love to write."
"Really?" She asks with a glimmer of hope and joy in her voice.
"Yeah. If you want, I could help you write your book."
"Really?!" She asks as she almost springs out of her bed and hits the ceiling.
"Yeah!" I laugh.
"That would be so amazing... But what could it be about?"
"I dunno... Maybe we should wait until your chest heals a little."
The girl bursts into laughter for a minute, then screams in pain.
"OW!" She screeches. "It hurts when I laugh..."
"That sucks." I joke.
The girl attempts to laugh again. "OW! Stop it!" She yells as she playfully slaps me in the shoulder.