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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1255354-Ana
by Erin M
Rated: 13+ · Sample · Cultural · #1255354
A young woman is distressed by the death of Kurt Cobain and decides to end her life.
         Ana sat with her legs hanging loosely below her. Her nose was pressed against the cheap tile counter, and her short hair was swinging slightly as she rocked her head back and forth.
         “Pondering the meaning of life, huh?”
         Startled by the voice, Ana immediately lifted her head a glanced around. A man twirled (very animatedly) on the stool to the very left of her, staying locked onto her eyes as he did so.
         “Uhm, hi,” Ana began, “No, I’m just…tire…tired I guess. Hi.”
         “It is one in the morning.” He glanced at the empty glasses on the table, assuming they were once occupied by an alcoholic substance. “How do you expect to drive home, you know, being that tired?”
         With red, swollen eyes and tired speech, Ana spoke after a moment of silence,          “I’m not drunk, and I don’t drive anyway. I live just…that way.” She pointed upwards, then let her hand fall back onto its position on the counter, followed by her head.
         “Jesus, are you alright?” His gray jacket fell down his arm as he lifted it into the air, motioning for the waitress to come. “Get her some coffee, will you? It’s on me.”
         “Look, I don’t know her, I just dialed 911. I was…sitting next to her, she was tired, that’s all I know.”
         “You don’t know of any family, fr-”
         “No! Sir, I don’t think you understand, I sat next to her at the counter, all the tables were taken, alright? I talked to her a little bit, I thought she was drunk. She told me she was just tired, and she wasn’t going to drive home anyway. I thought I’d offer her a ride if she was drunk. Then she just...collapsed, like she was when I came in, and we thought she’d fallen asleep but she was unconscious. That’s when we called you guys.”
         “Yeah, uh, me and the waitress. She came to give her some coffee.”
         “I see. Well, the doctors told me that they’d have to pump her stomach, that she wasn’t responding. She’s got some pretty nasty stuff inside of her.”
         “Oh my god…why was she at the diner? She just seemed tired…is she going to die?”
         “Sir, I know we asked you to come, but if you have no relation whatsoever with this woman, we suggest that you leave. Go home, go to bed, you’ll forget all about this by tomorrow.”
         “No, there’s nobody here for her. I’ll stay. Live or die. My guess is she has no family. Friends, maybe, but it’s not like she could call them up. I’m gonna stay.”
         “I’m staying here.” He then sat down and opened up a magazine. The cop followed in quick succession, pulled out a pad of paper and found a pen from his chest pocket.
         “I might as well get your information then, just in case, you know.”
         “My inf…whatever, my name is Marcus, Marcus Walker. I’m twenty-three years old, five foot ten, one-sixty pounds…”
         “Alright, alright.” He squeezed the pad of paper back inside his hip pocket before placing the pen behind his ear and letting out an exaggerated sigh. “You’re a small guy. What do you do?”
         “So we’re going to make small talk now, huh? I’m a writer.”
         “Oh? What do you write?”
         “That’s like asking what kind of crime you fight. I write whatever. Articles, scripts, novels, short-stories, I could go on?”
         “No, please, I get it. You don’t wanna talk to me, I understand. I wouldn’t wanna talk to me either, I’m a fat, annoying cop. But I bet there’s more to it, you’ve gotten in trouble with us in the past haven’t you?”
         “Why? Do I look the type?”
         “Kind of, yes. Ragged clothing…”
         “It’s the nineties.”
         “Messy hair.”
         “So you’ve probably heard about Cobain?”
         “Probably? One of my friends has already committed suicide, another tried.”
         “I thought you said you didn’t know this woman.”
         “Not her, friends.”
         “Oh, well, I’m sorry. You’re a fan?”
         “You could say that. I thought his songs were very simple, too simple sometimes, and if there weren’t so much more…feeling in his songs, I wouldn’t even listen. The drummer, though. Grohl. He’s cool. Good thing he doesn’t write lyrics. You know about the whole drummer writing lyrics thing…but I heard that he’s actually written some, and it’s pretty good.”
         “You get really into it, huh? Yeah…my kids the same. She had posters of him, fifteen-years-old, poor thing.”
         The doctor emerged from within the depths of the operating hall, northwest of the couple. A look of confusion appeared on his face as he searched for the police man who arrived with the druggie he’d just pumped, seventh that day.
         “Yo, doc’.” The cop stood up, and only then did Marcus notice the pungent scent emitted by the man; he must’ve gone more than forty-eight hours without showering.
         “Ah, yes, sir. Hello,” Marcus noticed a slight British accent, “the girl, she’s alright, major damage though. She needs rest, and probably help too. She’s awake, probably doesn’t want to see anybody right now. There are still some nurses checking vital…bullshit, honestly I don’t understand why they treat these damn hippies like royalty. But anyway, check up with the secretary. So he’s the family?” he asked, nodding in the direction of Marcus.
         “Uh, no, we don’t know of any. I just need to get some identification and all that.”
         “Oh don’t bother, she won’t want anyone to know. It’d be a waste of time, so small of a fee that it doesn’t matter. I’m going to stop even charging these people…I swear to God…”
         The cop chuckled under his breath.
         “I understand. Alright. This guy, doesn’t even know her, he probably wants to stay. I’m going home. See you later today, doc’, I’m sure.”
         “I would hope not.”
         The large man left the building, and Marcus caught up with the doctor.
         “So what’s up with her?”
         “Oh, she’s just hanging out in the ICU. You know, hooking up with some of our doctors, having a great time. You should go join her, unless you haven’t already today?”
         “What are you talking about?”
         “Damn teenagers, in and out of here all damn day. You know, April is statistically one of the months where people die the least. That’s changing, fast. It’s April eleventh and already eight teenagers have died in this hospital. Since April fifth. Less than a fucking week. A fucking week. And because of some guy who wore ripped jeans and shot up on heroin everyday? It’s bullshit…” He began to leave, before adding, “You can go see your girlfriend if you want, she’ll be dead soon anyway. This attempt didn’t work, she’ll be in again next week. Maybe she’ll be the first adult to die. How exciting!”
© Copyright 2007 Erin M (thewindblows at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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