The smell of a hospital is universal.
From Chicago to Calcutta it is the same antiseptic mixed with alcohol that leaves a dull ache in your head. The hallways are the same sterile white and gray facade. The lights are the same white that burn through your eyelids. The same nurses wearing different faces that are bothered- really harassed by anyone that might even dare to think, much less ask that they do their job.
I have been to a lot of hospitals. I can’t say I’m a fan. I prefer them to the fire houses though. The fake camraderie builds in you as you enter through the shaded door and see the same mustache on a new man sitting in front of Fox or some niggerball. The same fake smiles and conversation as you head in to take a piss. With them you have to fake that you care. I have to fake that I care. The nurses, they are beyond that point. Maybe it is just the cruel heart of a femoid. Maybe it is the weak heart of a man who is at best lifting up a bariatric who fell from the bath while his even larger whale of a wife watches on from the bed that houses colonies of cockroaches, and on average sleeping in a bunk surrounded by other closeted homosexuals.
The vending machine at the fire house has Cheez-Its though, and sometimes a cat.
I do not like my job. Wow. Shocking! Who doesn’t love to work when the social contract that underpins our labor is- well that isn’t really why I don’t like it but everything is society’s fault at some level. But I have to make rent and it wasn’t a hard course.
Today I am mostly working at a hospital. Well, I am moving people between hospitals, nursing homes, psych wards if I am lucky.
It is a routine. Procedural. Formulaic. The same conversation, smiling at the same nurses, my partner and I pretending to get to know eachother beyond a firstname basis.
I don’t hate my job. It has its ups and downs as any career does. The feeling of the sweat pooling beneath your gloves and the blue turning purple as the sirens blare and you speed down dark streets as a life slips behind the seat is one not much can match. The adrenaline of pressing against someone’s chest as they are gone, squeezing the air into their lungs. The subtle glances at the bare chests as the girls look at you in earnest and bare all with the hope that you can help them. The slips that occur in the back of the truck as it bounces and your hand slides past their nipple or you get pressed into their chest.
The partner ruins a lot of it. The catatonic girls who claim suicide because they don’t want to go to work and want a 3 day weekend, who sit in the back and you have to pull down their top and stick on the EKG. I can’t slide my hand too far up their thigh to “stay steady” when someone is breathing down my neck.
It helps that I am young. That I am white. So many of these women are niggers or spics I couldn’t imagine the appeal were they not surrended to me.
Today is not one of the fun days were you ride around and “help” the populace. Today I sit behind a wheel every other turn and move the old and the infirm, or the homeless if I am so LUCKY! Because who doesn’t love getting stuck with a rude fat nigger?
Once I had this guy who was groping my partner as she lifted him up. Maybe forty? A fat nigger, and many of them grab. No woman paramedic is cute though. And so he wants us to cart him around the city and it is 5 PM, so of course there is traffic. I get the wonderful time of sitting in the back with a jigaboo who hasn’t showered for days, and trust me I can tell why the hospital kicked him out, only to learn that the pot of gold sitting at the end of the rainbow, the shelter, wouldn’t take him.
Nigger got banned, I had to deal with some kike who looked like a caricature Himmler would’ve drawn to show the SS telling me that my nigger isn’t good enough for his shelter. And trust me, it was nothing special. Then to hear my fifty something twice abortioned, and she told me this, partner bitch me out because I told her we can’t just leave Uncle Tom on the side of the road and drive away.
I digress.
I like the night shift, I have college in the mornings so 6 PM to 6 AM is kind of the sweet spot, and here I am sitting beneath the LED lights that might convince a Trojan Shepherd he was looking upon Mount Olympus, when my life changes.
We had a call to transport someone, a girl. It was my turn, and it was a long drive.
She was eighteen, skinny and pale. My partner wheeled her out after flirting with the sheriff at the door of the psych ward. She even had the socks.
“Are you driving?” Probably the first words I said in hours.
“If you do the report.”
We scrambled in the back. Have you ever been in the back of an ambulance? It bounces. Every bump in the road, every turn, you feel it. It was going to be a long ride, and as she strapped in I dimmed the lights in the back.
She hadn’t said anything. They usually don’t. I tried to smile.
I remember once we were moving this older woman- history of suicide. I say older, she was maybe thirty? I can see why she tried. She wasn’t a whole lot to look at, absent tits and an ass with a face that would make James Charles pass. But, when I helped her up she decided it was better to grab my ass than my arms.
I digress. Again.
Let’s call her Colleen. Colleen was not your average eighteen year old. A history of self harm, probably raped by her daddy or uncle, dull eyes. Thin, maybe eighty pounds soaking wet. Well, not the soaking wet I mean but still. I could tell she was cold before we started moving. Her A-cups rose like gentle mountains from a small frame. Her nipples stood on edge, as if trying to cut through the thin sheet she called a robe. I reached over her, my crotch maybe too close to her face to reach above and grab a pink blanket. I draped it over her, and slid my hands beneath her to push the sheet in. I left the side closest to me open.
We started driving, it was maybe an hour ride. I am patient, it is a virtue after all. I waited a good twenty minutes before I whispered.
“Hi”
She had the same blank stare as she had before. My partner was watching some niggerball game on his laptop as he drove.
I pushed my hand against her cheek, pushed the dark hair from her eyes and pressed the back of my palm against her forehead. She was still cold. The entire time she did not move.
I slid my hand underneath the sheet, and down her robe.
“Just checking your heart.” A bad lie. I don’t think she even registered.
Her nipples were hard still, but I could see that through the sheet. I could feel the gentle curve as I slid my rough hands past her soft virgin skin. My thumb slid by her nipple and I could feel her quiver. Her eyes never closed.
I moved to stand behind her head, my body blocking the little slit that you could view in from the driver’s seat, and I lifted the sheet up and I stared down her chest. Two perky teenage breasts begging for someone to see before this tight foid killed herself. It would be a shame if no one got to enjoy her body before she died.
A cups, just barely. Higher breasts, perky, like something you would see in a Renaissance painting. Her nipples were still hard and pink. Her skin coloring was like pastels, and I swear I could see her blush.
I pushed the robe around her shoulders and down to her hips. I could already see the scars.
“Are you okay?” I didn’t care. I needed to know if she responded.
Nothing.
I pushed a little further, leaning almost entirely over her now. I could feel him pushed against her head. I knew she could feel my warmth.
I felt the heat of her, like a dog. She had no underwear. I was just happy there wasn’t a diaper. At least the razor got put to one good use, she was completely bald. It was beautiful, better than any of the freshman sluts I have been with, although most of those were Asian and little better than a cheap prostitute.
A beautiful inviting pink, sticky as I pushed my fingers past her belly button and ontop of her gem.
I looked down at her and saw her eyes closed. I could almost see the blush on her milk white cheeks.
It was too late now.
I forced my finger inside of her. One to start. And felt how tight she was. It felt wrong. It felt great.
My finger pulsed inside of her, fast, and I stuck my other hand past my belt. I had to be quick. I couldn’t believe I was doing this.
It wasn’t long. Maybe a minute, maybe two. I felt the thick and sticky fluid drain. I swear I could feel it stick to her hair through the work pants.
There was a tear on her cheek. I didn’t even notice.
I pulled the sheet up and I sat down. I said nothing. Neither did she.
None of this went in the report of course.
And that was it, we dropped her off, and I realized that I loved my job.