by Big Ev
The stark, bright orange lights of the A&E reception lit up the ambulance interior, as its doors were forcibly flung open, illuminating the bloody scene within. The olive drap stretcher, soaked coppery brown and awkward with its load, was heaved from inside then dropped unceremoniously on to the arriving triage trolly, white and chromed in comparison to its newly aquired load. The "Fight Night" regulars, drunks and druggies, smoking or loitering at the sliding doors, shouting and swearing at out presence here under their lights and in their land, watched me as I handed over the wounded casualty, a comrade, a friend in need, attached to me by his plasma expanding IV line and my shaking hand at his throat checking his unstable pulse. In a single choked and emotional breath, I reported his catalog of multiple and potentially fatal wounds, to an all too nonchalant and seemingly disinterested local doctor in an off white biro stained scrubs jacket. As the doctor leaned forward with stethoscope in hand, sighing in his colloquial brogue, "Ah well, another one bites the dust eh," a bleeding arm rose from the stretcher, caught hold of his jacket and with red coloured words croaked "...I know I'm just a soldier... but please don't let me die." The wounded comrade refused to bite the dust that night, nor has he yet, though it was a close run thing; but what did bite the dust that evening, by subjection and experience, was some impartiality - a little understanding and a bit of compassion for those who claimed the land in which those orange lights burned so bright.
Big Ev, a humble chimney sweep, lives in a small town on the scenically beautiful northwest Antrim Coast of Northern Ireland. He has plenty of life experience, more than most, though less than many. (There's always room for another adventure.) He's lucky enough to be loved and madly in love with another wannabe writer and already-published 6S author.