Okay, I admit it, the names and the circumstances have been modified to protect. And something called HIPPA. But this place is a great way for me to vent, for me to play around with the English language, and for me to have a punching bag whenever life gets too out of hand.

Well it starts at midnight. Again. If I had traveled back in time a year ago, I would not have recognized myself.

"Ambulance One, Paramedic One, Engine One, respond to a gun shot wound, ************* address, SO (Sheriff's Officers) on scene, Map page ***."

Minutes later, "Ambulance Three, Paramedic Three, respond to same address, possible fatality, LifeFlight on hold."

I was so pumped on adrenaline everything seemed to happen in slow motion. I sprinted past the officers lifting up the yellow crime scene tape to an horrific scene. One guy my age curled up lifelessly in front of a door. Blood formed a surreal backdrop to everything, spraying the doors, pooling on the floor, soon all over our hands.

A mother empty of tears held on to her son in the middle of all of the carnage. After I made sure the other kid truly had no pulse, everyone focused their efforts on the surviving kid. Hands clamping down to stop the bleeding, shears cutting off clothing, soft grunts as we lifted him on our backboard into the ambulance.

A soft whir in the distance signaled the helicopter's arrival. Inside the ambulance, things were getting worse. The paramedic had trouble intubating because of all the blood spewing from his lungs. I slapped my hands against the open holes but blood kept coming out, getting all over my uniform, my hands. He started to fight us as his brain lost his last oxygen reserves, but the flight paramedic arrived to knock him out with a cocktail, and soon the helicopter began to start up.

The copter lifted off from the street blocked off by our fire engines, and blew dust all over the blood caked all over me. Great. I ripped off my gloves only to notice the tear. Shit. I tried to clean off the blood on my bare hands, but just as I closed the door, the latch cut into my palm.

For a moment, I looked at the cut, imagining capilaries releasing blood, flowing blood that bubbled out onto my palm.

No time to think about it, because another unit called over the radio, warning all units about the 4-5 gangsters walking down the road towards our location, murderous and vengeful.

The night doesn't stop there. Hours later, we were called back. After multiple police units had secured the scene again, a crowd of neighbors had surrounded the mother of the fallen gangster, trying to calm her down. It was chaotic, with the entire extended family sobbing, trying to dab away the blood that covered the mother.

I don't even know where I am going with this. There isn't a meaningful way for me to express what I am feeling, but with each sentence I am trying to clean myself. With my previous codes, I could build a wall, separate myself from the patient in front of me.

There was no way I could now. I gave too much of myself, plugging bullet holes with my hands, the same hands that held hands with a mother who should never have to survive her sons, the same hands that a cheerful nurse drew blood from to test for possible exposure to HIV.

I drove home in the morning, and parked in spot under a shady tree. I got out of the car, and could not take it anymore. I crumpled the coffee cup that kept me from falling asleep on the road, and pounded it against the door frame of my car. I...let the emotions wash over me, a catharsis under waving branches, until I ran out and stumbled back home.