1989
In accordance with multiple religions, or simply the one I know of: a decrepit religion that is no longer practiced—the blaring of a trumpet is a sign of end times.
There was no sound but the clanking of metal of scalpels, forceps, and the like. The trumpet of some band, I reckoned, amalgamated with it.
The operating room was bleak, the white walls stained with maturity, the air chilly.
This hospital, which I could not care less of and had been the source of my stress for almost a decade now, was announced just this morning that it was to be renovated. How I'd wished it was demolished.
Right. I should not distract myself any further.
My eyes attempted to at least rest on the woman in labor who groaned quietly with every touch of the midwife.
The surgeon, Doctor Jame, grabbed a scalpel with a clink, and the scalpel sliced cleanly the woman's genitals, like tearing fabric.
Blood spilled as the skin opened up like a book, showing off the layers of skin. I recounted the lectures I listened to back in college: epidermis, middle dermis, hypodermis.
I hissed when the surgeon opened the wound.
Really. Blood from films was far too different from real life. Films were in black and white, reality was too colorful, too red. And not even a camera can capture the metallic stench and its texture, that is neither thick or thin.
In an attempt to change the color of my sight, I closed my eyes, looking away.
The doctor continued to observe the lady with fogged spectacles.
I must have hallucinated. Just before I could close my eyes, they caught on a red-haired man through the operating room's door.
This may sound strange and random but I must write it out.
I'm not sure when it began; that feeling of disbelonging.
As far as I knew, I had been somewhat like a ghost my whole life. Well, I had friends, of course. But never had I ever felt the feeling of belonging.
So I coped with storytelling. I coped alongside my characters.
I had written his story as if I was spending time with a friend.
So could you imagine seeing that exact character you once wrote suddenly exist, as if they weren't fictional? A fiery mop of red hair passed by the operating room, that same blue cape, hiding his mouth. I could just barely get a glimpse of his iron armour.
I facepalmed. There's no way that had been him.
I attempted to look again, practically begging my eyes to not shut. He was gone as swift as he appeared.
I must have hallucinated.
"Nurse Schneider," said the surgeon, her words barely heard by the trumpet outside.
I was sure that even a deaf man would be annoyed by the sound.
The two interns stood in the corner, clipboard and pen in hand.
And with only a glance, I managed to understand what she meant. The pelvic bone of the woman was blocking the child's exit, which meant: symphysiotomy method.
"Yes."
I handed what had then been called an osteotome. A hand-held mechanical device with sharp metallic teeth that moved swiftly like an automated wood saw.
She quickly took it off my hands.
The pregnant woman winced at the sight of such a gruesome tool.
I comforted her.
"Don't worry," I said through my mask. "You won't feel a thing."
Which had been half a lie, for, while bones do have nerves, the device had been chilled and the woman had been hit with anesthesia.
The bone cutting device made a buzz that gave chills down my spine as it sliced through bone. I couldn't imagine what that felt like. I'm sure the loud band outside made the feeling worse.
The trumpets continued to resound, the bass like drums. I was almost sure it could be heard through the whole hospital.
The woman began to tear up, whimpering in between sobs and sniffles.
A snap.
The pelvic bone could be seen slightly, poking out of the woman's genitals.
The lady shrieked.
She continued to scream hysterically.
"It hurts! It hurts!"
The woman attempted to lunge, but I took hold of her shoulders and pressed her onto the bed.
"Doctor Jame," said I. "The head is showing!"
"I understand," she said with a nod. Then turned to the interns, "Make sure to write this down."
"Let me go!"
The lady sobbed in agony, her face swollen from the aftereffects of pregnancy.
Her legs continued to agitate to the point that dark blood had spilled on my scrub.
"Madam, push!"
This was nothing new to me. Though I usually worked in the emergency room, unwilling and pained patients were nothing. My hands may have been dyed with blood but it had been with my hands that a life was born into this world.
And the doctor, too, I guess.
I pinned her wrists to the frame of the bed. Attempting to retaliate, she shook her body.
"Push!"
I could tell that the slimy torso of the newborn can be seen even from another angle.
I comforted her some more.
"Almost there. Calm down."
The doctor gave way to me and I held the child's head.
And, for a moment, there was silence.
The trumpet had stopped.
So had the woman.
There was a sound of a splatter.
I looked down; first, at my hands that were now discolored by blood; then, to the linoleum floor.
The infant fell face down, and the metallic stench seemed to become harsher after the loss of a life.
[You have joined the rounds]
[You are the first person to join the rounds]
[Your prize will be sent to your mail]
I had become a killer that day.
-
1981
A young man blew through a trumpet, the kind used for the new years. His chestnut brown hair was neatly done and a single strand had fallen exquisitely on his forehead. A smile grew on his face as he played with a sparkler, his well-kept mustache stretched as he did so.
Due to the lightless moon, not even Reverie could see his eyes, only his mouth and stache. Whatever his expression may be, Reverie could not tell. Only the glow of the firework sparkler illuminated them.
They chuckled boyishly like children.
Behind them were duffle bags of considerable size. It could perhaps fit a toddler's body.
"One," said the brunet.
"Two," said the other.
Then in unison, "Three."
The camera in front of them flashed.
"Is it recording, Reverie?"
"I figure. I'm no good with tech."
"Never mind that. What were we about to say?"
Reverie groped and fiddled with his pockets in search of the folded typewritten piece of paper that he had given him.
"Ugh. What's your damage, Reverie? Hurry! Ugh, don't mind. We'll make up as we go."
He dropped his hands in defeat. Reverie nudged closer in fear he wouldn't get captured by the camera. His friend scoffed.
"Okay, ready? In one, two, three—"
The brown-haired young man held Reverie's shoulder closer.
They both say in unison:
"We are the harbingers of the apocalypse."