Ok, I'm trusting ya'll here. Please keep in mind that the last creative writing I did was 18 years ago in college. ;)
disclaimer: "The West Wing" and its characters are the property of NBC, Aaron Sorkin, and John Wells Productions. No copyright infringement or disrespect is intended nor any profit being made (by me, at least).
He's in shock, of course, it certainly doesn't take a doctor to see that. Other than that, he isn't seriously wounded and she is. I don't have the time to be as gentle as I'd like, but I *have* to get a good look at her and he's in the way. Reaching out, I shake his shoulder roughly this time,
The response is the same, he glances at me with blank eyes and then immediately looks back down at his hand. The bloody hand pressed hard against her abdomen trying to hold back the tide. His position hasn't changed at all - sitting against the police cruiser amid a sea of broken glass, she's on his lap, her head against his shoulder, and he's holding her for all he's worth. Looks like I'm going to have to *make* time to be gentle.
"Please, Mr. Seaborn, I'm a doctor. She needs help - I can help her. Please..."
Finally, a reaction. There is a glimmer of life and intelligence in the eyes that look at me this time. I believe that he actually sees me now.
"I... I can't let go. There's so much blood..."
"I know. And we have to make it stop, but I need you to let her go."
His eyes plead with me, for help, for understanding, for forgiveness, maybe? I can't be sure. But he's shifting her head off his shoulder and laying her gently on the gurney the paramedics supplied. Now I can do my job. Some small part of my mind won't leave him alone, though. Her wounds are very obvious, very physical. His, I think, are the greater injuries to the soul. ~~~~~~~~~~