Thursday, July 16, 2009
Called to a 12-year old boy, gunshot in the chest. Lights and sirens, moving through traffic as quickly as we can; arriving we find three fire engines, four police cars, and fifty some-odd people gathered around on the grass. In the stairwell lies a young African-American boy in a puddle of his own blood. Firemen are viciously pumping on his tiny chest, sweat pouring down their faces. A hole the size of his little fist is evident on the left side of his chest. No pulses, or breaths; pupils are dilated and non-reactive. It seems futile but we work him as hard as we can. He's pronounced in the ER within moments of arrival.
Urban violence was something that I was never exposed to both as a youth and even later as an adult. It's reality is stark and obscene, and you don't know wether to cry or scream as you stare at it's aftermath. You're angry at everyone involved, even the victim himself draws your ire.