TILL DEATH DO US PART | JENLISA

FOUR

JENNIE

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To Do It All Again

April 12th, 2011

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I was an artist once that painted the world. I hashed lines of color, dazzling blues and greens, covering everything I was and everything people believed about me. I wore colors of fury and poise, perfect and serene like a chameleon. No one really knew the girl I was. No one knew about me because it wasn’t important. Neither my family nor my friends paid attention to the yearning in my heart or the skill I developed. They didn’t care that worlds lived inside me. They just cared that I performed in this one. As long as I was the perfect child, friend, lover, with a perfect smile, perfect walk, and stunning eyes, then it was okay.

I was okay.

But, was I okay?

When I traded a paintbrush for a scalpel, when I became a masterful artist at deceiving death, I fulfilled their dreams for my life. Instead of bringing to life creations, I brought back God’s work from the reaper. I used lances and medication as a palette to whisper drops of magic into other’s veins. I whipped arcs of electricity from my fingertips, rending jolts through people’s hearts. The only parallel between the two was that I existed in the moments between moments. It was where I lived and breathed.

Where I breathed until breathing wasn’t enough.

“Breathe.”

I pump my hands up and down, throwing all my body weight into the compressions. I feel ribs splinter under my hands.

“Breathe.” The inflation of the bag sounds like a wheeze.

I replace my hands, and start again. One, two, three...I push down, my eyes fixing in determination on the cardiac monitor beside me. With every depression, I see the peak. I see it go flat. I won’t remit. I have slammed hundreds of blows into his chest, but I won’t stop.

Everything burns, my legs, my back. My arms threaten to crumble. I’m panting as I stop. “Breathe.”

“Should we call time of death?” The nurse beside me gives me a nervous look.

“No.” I keep going, feeling the sharp bones under my hands as I press into the void of the chest before me. “Where the hell is the crash cart?”

“Here!” I hear the contraption squeak into the room and I move off the bed, stumbling awkwardly as my body uncoils. I’m out of shape. I haven’t done this in a long time. It feels like I’ve ran a marathon and my knee groans in protest when I knock it against the bed rail. “Doctor Kim, charged at 300 joules.”

I grab the paddles, ignoring my pain because somewhere this young man is fighting a tougher battle than I. The nurses spread conductive jelly on the chest I’ve broken to pieces. Hands positioning automatically, I glance around. “Clear!”

The sound that rips through the air, the tear of lightning released by me, makes my hands numb as the form under me arches. All eyes turn to the monitor, to the wobbling line. His heart is quivering. It’s trying. I put the paddles back as the machine beside me hums. I pray. I pray that when I send arcs of electricity through him that his heart will fire. That he will open his eyes. He is a young kid, too young to go. He is too important to stop fighting for.

“Clear!” He has to fight. Fight, damn you! I scream silently as I crush another wave of light through him.

I suddenly hear it, the little blessed beep. When my eyes fix on the monitor, I shudder a breath. The small bounding peaks persist. I stare at them, ready for if they stop. I’m ready to pull him back again if I have to.