Over time the stale scent of blood
becomes like a lover's perfume. You know it is still there, and on a good day
you still catch a whiff of it. Most minutes though... most times... you just
forget the thing that used to define every moment with her (her the woman, or
her the city) fades into the background. It tickles the olfactory part of your
mind that defines memory but no longer stokes desire.
When I first moved to Detroit, that
coppery smell reminded me that reclamation was perfectly legal for a doctor.
Used cybernetics have a limited value though, and an even smaller window of
re-usability. Working as a wandering doc for hire was more satisfying. Most
days.
That day reminded me that the
fifty-third modification to the Hippocratic Oath meant there were always
choices to make. Sometimes simple choices. Most often very complex choices with
untold ramifications.
From guys with purple spines on the
outside, to women with orange, ceramic heads that replaced their original brain
cases, I've seen some weird shit. That day took the cake. Hell, that might have
been what it was about.
The seven foot tall, broad, muscular man
falling down in front of me made me think of soldiers in the third class wars.
He looked tough. But with the forgetting of honor and the absence of
training... well... they were all posers as big as the white gang bangers in
the nineteen eighties. With all the grace of a slaughtered hog he slipped to
his knees, a gaping knife wound in his gut.
His assailant, a nuvo punk, ran down the
street; brandishing his blade in front of him. Just as I stooped to look at the
victim, fate stepped in. As the fickle bitch so often does.
The assailant tripped and landed on his
own knife. Perhaps it was a drug induced walking coma. If I saw his eyes I am
sure they would have cleared. He was screaming in pain. His cries for help
echoed in my brain. He screamed about what just happened?
Like I said... He might not have known.
End of the day? He made a choice and he was responsible for it. Just like any
of us. He should be held accountable. I was responsible for my own choices too.
I had one to make now. Two patients, one traveling doctor. I did what any man
of morals and means would have done.
I pulled out my street doc pad and
scanned it. The information on both patients jumped out for my fingertips to
scroll through. I stood and walked towards the assailant. You would have too.
He had better insurance.
#shortstory #author #Awethors #socialcommentary #writer #writing #writingprompt
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