Ugly : clifford a.u

Spencer

I don't know how long I attempted to hold Luke's limp body up, before a girl with lips pursed firmly shut and eyebrows wrinkled in grief brushed past me, taking over.

Another guy in a similar Blue uniform cut the strip of leather holding up, while several man in fire pants and coats helped lay him on the ground.

"Someone take C-Spine."

The girl moved to kneel at Luke's head, holding it in her hands. While the guy pressed his gloved fingertips to Luke's neck.

"He's got a pulse?"

"He's breathing."

"Eight a minute."

"Someone hook up a BVM I'm going to ventilate."

A mask attached to a Blue rubber pump looking thing was placed over Luke's Blue lips, then removed while a tube was crammed down his nose before, the mask was replaced and a man began squeezing it.

"Thirteen hundred hours OPA and BVM ventilation's, high flow 02 fifteen liters per minute."

"Thank you." Someone with a clip board called out before walking up to me.

"Come here," he coaxed pulling me out of the way, the many other bodies blocking Luke from my view.

"How old is he?"

"Eighteen." I sobbed.

"Does he have allergies?"

I shook my head.

"Is he on any medications?"

Again, I shook my head.

"Nothing?"

"I don't think so, I don't know. Is he okay?"

"We're doing everything we can."

"Last time he ate or drank?"

"I don't know."

"Are you family?"

"I'm his sister."

I tried to look around the man, but could only make out, Luke's foot."

"Does he have a history of depression?"

"I-I don't know, he's sad. It's not diagnosed or anything."

"Move back!"

Feeling sick I looked around the man again, this time watching as several of the first responders moved away from Luke, who's neck was now in a collar, and who's body was moving in random jerking motions, grunts and groans leaving his mouth.

"What is that?" I screamed, "What's he doing? Someone help him! Why is he doing that?"

"We're doing everything we can sweetie." The girl who couldn't have been older then twenty, said gently.

"What is he doing?" I sobbed.

"He's having a seizure." She answered.

Suddenly Luke's body stopped jerking and instead his shoulders and arms moved inward, curling in on themselves.

"He's posturing." Someone called out, "decorticate."

The man in front of me scribbled something down.

"Why is he doing that." I sobbed."

"Conner get her out of here." The girl demanded, "She doesn't need to be watching."

"I want to stay." I argued as a boy who looked to be about Luke's age began ushering me out of the room, "Please don't make me leave him I want to stay!"

"You don't." The boy said gently, "We're doing everything we can. But it's not pleasant to watch and it's just going to be very hard for you. Come on, you're shaking, come with me and let's get some air."

Knowing it was a loosing battle I let him usher me down stairs and out onto the porch where Michael was sat with another young firefighter.

As we walked out a police car arrived and another ambulance, then not far behind them, my Mom.

Unable to move or talk or think or do anything besides helplessly cry I watched as they all ran in the house, and then several minutes later came back out, pushing Luke on a stretcher. He was loaded into the ambulance my Mom got into the front seat and then they were driving away.

"Do you need a ride to the hospital?" The boy, Connor, offered.

I don't remember my response, I just remember a police officer driving both Michael and I to the hospital, where I tearfully settled down in the waiting room, to wait.