{RP} A Random Act of Violence by Al Steiner (FM, nurse)
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Subject: {RP} A Random Act of Violence by Al Steiner (FM, nurse)
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A RANDOM ACT OF VIOLENCE
My spirits were high as I drove East on Interstate 90 late that
morning. I had everything in the world to look forward to. My residency in
emergency medicine was nearly at an end, bringing a close to almost thirteen
years of college, med-school, and intensive specialty training. Soon I would
start making the big bucks and could begin paying off the huge loans that had
resulted at a rate that was more than a pittance. More importantly, I would
be on my own at last, blessed with all of the privileges and responsibilities
that went along with it. I looked forward to the challenge. Life was
shaping up.
My mood was enhanced by the mission I was embarked upon. I was
heading from Seattle, where I'd gone to school and trained, to Spokane for a
job interview I had scheduled for the next day. An interview for a staff
position as an emergency physician at one of the hospitals. The interview
was pretty much a formality. I was a shoe-in for the job. They had
recruited me after all. Starting salary was just over one hundred and
fourteen thousand a year (of course, fully twenty-eight percent of that would
go for malpractice insurance alone. ER docs are second only to obstetricians
in insurance rates); which beat the living shit out of the thirty something
thousand I made as a resident. The end was in sight at last, and with it,
salvation.
I was motoring my tired and battered Toyota pick-up at about seventy
miles an hour, thinking about how the first thing I was going to do upon
employment was dump the damn thing and buy something EXPENSIVE, like a
Mercedes or a Lexus. I had just entered the foothills West of the Cascades,
climbing towards Snoqualmie Pass. I kept a semi-worried eye on my
temperature gauge as the elevation increased. The old pick-up hadn't been on
a trip such as this in a few years, since the last time I'd had time to go
skiing. But it seemed to be holding steady as the landscape changed over to
pine trees and patches of snow on the ground. The CD player I'd installed
last year (one of the few luxuries I'd allowed myself) was pumping out track
four of Rush's Moving Pictures; a song called "Limelight". I was singing
along happily.
The windshield in front of me suddenly erupted in a spider's web
snarl of cracks as the safety glass shattered before my eyes. There was a
small hole at the center of this snarl. The sound was flat, undramatic, but
still I jumped, adrenaline flooding my body. Vaguely I felt a burning
sensation in the center of my chest but I paid it no attention, thinking, if
anything, that it was a result of having the crap scared out of me.
What the hell had happened? I wondered, trembling a little. Was it a
rock thrown from a truck? It couldn't have been, there was nobody closer than
a quarter mile in front of me. Since it was now hard to see out the window, I
started to pull the truck to the right shoulder, wondering what I was going to
do now. I couldn't keep driving this way, with a snarl of cracks and broken
glass obscuring my vision. But I had to get to Spokane. Formality or not, it
wasn't a good idea to miss a job interview.
The burning in my chest, instead of going away, deepened steadily until
it felt like someone had lit a blow-torch in there. I put my hand up to rub
what seemed to be the center of the discomfort and felt dampness beneath my
fingers. Confused, wondering what I might have spilled on myself, I brought
the hand up and looked at it. My fingers were covered with blood.
Adrenaline flooded me once again. Afraid of what I'd see, I looked
down at my chest, confirming the vague suspicion that had formed at the sight
of the blood. There was a neat hole, smaller than the diameter of a dime, in
my T-shirt. Blood was spreading slowly around this hole. I glanced up to
see that my truck was still pointed down the Interstate and then looked down
again, pulling the neck of my shirt away from my body. There was another
hole in my chest, also very slight in diameter, just to right of my sternum,
at about the level of the sixth rib. I'd seen many similar holes in my
internship time at one of Seattle's trauma centers. It was a gunshot wound.
Somebody had shot me.
"Fuck me." I muttered, feeling the burning intensify. I looked
frantically around the truck, searching for the gunman, but saw nothing but
hills and dirt and pine trees and snow. Who the hell had shot me? Why had
they done it? What had I ever done to deserve this?
My survival instinct kicked in, bringing up two points at once. First
of all, whomever had done this was probably still around somewhere. I needed
to get the hell out of here, quickly. Second, I'd been shot in the chest,
right of the sternum. People DIED from this sort of wound all the time. The
right lung was under there. The heart wasn't directly under there but it was
close and bullets rarely traveled in a straight line once they entered the
body. There were also large, major arteries and veins under there, vessels
that were just entering or leaving the heart itself. The aorta, the superior
vena cava. If one of those had been knicked or penetrated, I could bleed to
death internally in a matter of minutes.
I stomped on the accelerator, making my engine lug down for a moment
in protest, but finally it resumed its normal operation and the truck began
to pick up speed. I leaned to the right, looking around the cracks in the
window at the Interstate unfolding before me. I took a few deep breaths to
check my body, receiving both good news and bad from it. I was moving air
okay but it hurt on the right side when I inhaled. Punctured lung? I
thought. Perhaps. All of the symptoms were there. That could lead to a
tension pneumothorax; the collapsing of the lung around the heart, which
effectively strangled the body's pump. I felt no dizziness yet and that was
good. Maybe I wasn't bleeding out, maybe the bullet didn't damage my heart.
I needed to get to a hospital like yesterday. Cursing myself for not
buying a cell phone (I'll never have any highway emergencies, I'd thought), I
continued down the Interstate, the feeling of threat from the gunman
disappearing but the fear of the damage already inflicted increasing. What
was I going to do? This was an isolated area. There were no call boxes
beside the road, there were no businesses with payphones. How do I get help?
I came up beside a Toyota Cressida driven by a young man in his early
twenties. He had the rugged, arrogant good looks of a Ken doll. An
attractive brunette was sitting in the passenger seat. Skis were mounted to
a rack on top. A couple heading up to the ski resorts for an afternoon of
expensive fun. My eyes locked onto the woman, not because she was
attractive, but because she was talking on a cellular phone. They could help
me!
I pulled up beside them, honking my horn frantically to get their
attention. Both of them turned their heads to see what was going on, gave me
an aristocratic look of disgust, and then went back to what they were doing.
I honked some more. They didn't bother looking but the Cressida began to
pick up speed as he pulled away from the madman that was bothering them.
Desperate, knowing that my pick-up was no match for their car, and
unable to think of any other way to get them to stop, I jerked my steering
wheel to the left. My tires squealed in protest and my truck slammed into the
side of their car with a bang. They looked at me, shocked and angry
expressions on their faces as I applied the brakes and brought my truck to a
screaming, smoking halt on the freeway. He brought his car to a similar halt,
coming to a stop in front of me.
His door flew open and he stormed out, moving angrily towards me, his
fists clenched up. I hoped he would at least pause to listen to me before he
started beating my ass. I rolled down my window.
"You fuckin' maniac!" He screamed, walking directly to my window.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing? Do you know what I paid..." He
stopped as he got a good look at me, his eyes widening in alarm.
"Somebody shot me." I told him, my eyes boring into his. "Please call
911 on your cell phone."
He seemed frozen in place, staring at me, not knowing what to do.
"Please?" I pleaded. "I need help immediately or I might die. Call
for help."
"Janie!" He suddenly screamed, turning back towards his car. "Give me
your fuckin' phone!"
The next thirty minutes passed in a blur. Cops, firefighters, and
paramedics showed up. Questions were shouted at me. I was dragged out of
the car and placed on a backboard. An oxygen mask was shoved onto my face.
My clothes were cut off of my body, leaving me naked and shivering in the
forty- five degree air. One of the paramedics agreed with my assessment that
my right lung was collapsing rapidly and she poked a large caliber needle
into my upper rib cage, releasing the pressure and making my breathing
easier. A couple of IV's were stabbed into my arms. Finally I was loaded
onto a Washington State Police helicopter. I enquired as to our destination
and was told we were going to UWMC in Seattle, the same facility I currently
worked at. Great. My colleagues would be taking care of me (and probably
would make cracks about my dick afterward, assuming I survived this).
It had taken me nearly an hour to drive from Seattle to that point.
The helicopter returned me in less than fifteen minutes. I was wheeled
inside the emergency room and directly to the resuscitation room or
recess-room, as it was known. I knew every doctor, nurse, x-ray tech and
resident in there. They put me through the standard trauma exam, poking and
prodding my body, stabbing needles into my femoral artery to draw blood
gasses, drawing venous blood from my arm veins to check labs, even the
dreaded rectal exam, or "prostate handshake" was done by the senior resident.
Her slimy gloved finger slid up my ass to the second knuckle, making me
wince.
"Sphincter tone is good," She called out to the scribe once her finger
was clear. She looked at it. "No obvious blood."
That was certainly nice to know, I thought. My worst nightmare had
come true. I was on the wrong end of procedures I'd performed a thousand
times on others. It was certainly an education in itself. They shot x-rays
of my chest and, alarmed at my low blood pressure, replaced one of the saline
IV bags with whole blood.
"We're gonna get you upstairs John." The senior resident told me.
Upstairs I knew meant the operating room. They were going to open my
chest, see what was wrong in there, and hopefully fix it, leaving me to fight
another day. Less than five minutes later I was on my way. They wheeled me
inside and while the surgical team began prepping my chest with betadine
solution, an anesthesiologist injected something in my IV. I began to get
very sleepy. I wondered if I would ever wake up again. People died in
surgery all of the time; their wounds too grave to repair. I marveled that
only about forty minutes ago I was driving down the interstate listening to
one of my favorite CDs without a care in the world. Now I was being forced
to contemplate death. So thinking my consciousness slipped away and I knew
no more.
Obviously, I pulled through or I wouldn't be able to write this tale
down. The bullet turned out to be a .22 caliber long. It had been fired, as
near as the cops could figure, from one of the hills overlooking the
Interstate; a completely random act. The bullet had sliced neatly through my
right lung and then had exited out my back, lodging in the car seat behind me
where the cops were able to dig it out and use it for later evidence against
the gunman. He would strike six more times over the next two weeks, killing
two, and injuring three. He made nationwide headlines and virtually shut down
eastbound traffic on I-90. Finally a stakeout of the hills resulted in his
capture. He was a twenty-two year old methamphetamine addict with a long
history of mental problems. Though he confessed to the crimes he gave no
particular explanation for why he'd decided to start taking pot shots at
passing vehicles.
I was forced to spend two weeks in the hospital, in the trauma
intensive care unit, in order to recover from my injuries. Thanks to
professional courtesy, I was given the nicest private room they had and the
nurses and staff doted on me shamelessly. One in particular doted better than
all of them.
Her name was Kelly. She was about forty years old, married with two
children, and a career ICU nurse. Her hair was flaming red, such a color
that could only be natural. Her body appeared to be in pretty good shape and
her face, while slightly plain, was pretty and didn't show her age. She
worked the night shift and was my nurse between the hours of 11:00 PM and
7:00 AM, Monday through Friday. I'd seen her around the hospital a few times
before but had never formally met her until I found myself a patient in the
place.
My first contact with her was when she came in to give me my pain
medicine my first night there. I appraised her as she entered. She was
wearing skirt type scrubs and white nylons. Her body was alluring, as was
her smile, but I was more interested in the syringe that she carried in her
hands. My chest was hurting BAD; not from the bullet wound but from the ribs
that they cracked when they'd opened my chest for surgery. I'd never
imagined it could hurt like this, each breath felt like someone was chopping
into my breastbone with an axe.
"How are you doing Doctor Winston?" She asked me, pulling down my
blankets a little to get at my arm and the IV port.
"I feel like somebody just cut my chest open." I told her, a weak
attempt at a joke. "And please, call me John."
"John then." She said, pulling the cap off of her syringe and ejecting
the air. "I'm Kelly. I'll be your night shift nurse for most of your stay
here. I have a little Demerol for you to help with the pain."
"How about a lot of Demerol?" I replied.
She smiled, a little more than the professional smile she probably gave
to other patients. She injected the contents of her syringe into my IV,
pushing it slowly to avoid having the sudden onslaught of medicine make me
throw up. Vomiting would most definitely be counter-productive to my healing.
A few minutes later I was stoned out of my mind. The pain, though far from
gone, became a distant throb, unimportant. I smiled my appreciation
She reached her hand out and stroked my hair in a motherly way. Her
hand was the only part of her body that showed her age. It was roughened by
time, with veins showing on the back. Still it felt nice against my forehead,
the fingers running through my short hair. I wondered if she did this for all
of her patients or if I was special.
"Feeling better?" She enquired.
"Much." I replied.
"Good." She said, finally pulling her hand away. "The Demerol will
only last about two or three hours but I can't give you another shot for four.
Let me know when the pain starts to get bad again. I'll be in and out of here
all night to check on you. Try to get some sleep if you can."
The days went by slowly in a haze of cycles of intense pain
alternating with the stoned feeling of Demerol or Dilaudid surging through my
body. My parents drove down from Bellingham to visit me. They stayed in my
apartment and came faithfully every day. My sister, who was in her third
year of med- school at Stanford flew up and made a few brief appearances too.
My colleagues, doctors, nurses, lab techs, x-ray techs came by in a constant
stream. Reporters also visited me on several occasions, wanting to know how
it felt to be the first victim of the "Interstate Sniper" as they called him.
Most of these were local but a very attractive reporter for CNN also made an
appearance. A representative of the hospital that I'd been heading to for
the interview also came by and assured me that they understood why I'd missed
the interview (that was big of them) and that it would be rescheduled
post-haste once I was released.
But at night there was only Kelly to visit me. She would dole out my
pain medication at the prescribed times. She would check my vital signs,
change my dressings, empty the catheter bag that collected my urine, give me
sponge baths to keep me clean, and talk to me. We had long conversations on
those night shifts and gradually she worked up to telling me very personal
things about herself.
"I made a mistake in marrying Tom." She told me one night while she
was rubbing my body down with a wet rag, cleaning me. I was lying naked
before her on the bed while she did this but I'd long since gotten used to
it.
"Did you?" I replied, enjoying the gliding of her hand over my chest.
I hated not being able to take a shower every day.
"Yeah." She said. "I married for money. Tom's a neurologist and back
then I was a twenty-two year old nurse in the NICU." She smiled fondly. "I
was hot looking and I knew it. Ah, youth."
"You're still pretty hot looking." I told her honestly.
"You're a sweetheart." She told me. "I try to keep myself in shape
but I'm nothing like what I was at twenty-two. Tom's a brilliant neurologist
but he was a nerd, still is. He didn't stand a chance when I turned on the
charm. So I have a four thousand square foot house in the best part of
Seattle, my kids are going to the best schools and will go to the best
colleges, but I have a husband that I've never really been attracted to and
who has never known how to...." She paused. "Well, you know?"
"Yeah," I said, giving a double meaning. "I KNOW."
She had been washing my lower abdomen and now moved on to my pelvic
area. Before I'd never become aroused when she did this due to the pain or
the pain medicine. This time was different. I felt myself stiffening as her
washcloth glided over my inner thighs and scrotum. The problem was that I
still had the catheter that they'd put in my first day here; a large diameter
tube that was threaded up my dick and into my bladder. When I started to
stiffen from her touch, my dick contracted around the tube causing an intense
burning sensation all the way up my urinary tract. This broke through the
pain medication easily and made the pain in my chest seem like a mild ache in
comparison.
"Owwww!" I nearly screamed, jerking upwards.
Kelly saw what was happening and jerked her hands away. The pain was
short-lived since it caused the immediate deflation of my cock and therefore
the problem. I panted for a moment as it faded, feeling embarrassment at what
had happened.
"Well." Kelly said, smiling at me. "I guess it's about time to see if
the Doc will let me take that catheter out."
It was actually one of the day shift nurses that removed it the next
morning. I vaguely remembered them putting it in. That had been when I'd
been lying on the recess room table and I'd had so many other painful things
going on at that moment that it didn't make a particular impression. Coming
out, however, was a different story. She used an empty 10cc syringe to
deflate the balloon that held it in place. She then told me to take a deep
breath and brace myself. Those are without a doubt the most dreaded words
you'll ever hear as a patient in the hospital. When she pulled the thing out
it felt as if a garden hose imbedded with rocks and broken glass were being
dragged through the center of my cock. I actually screamed, sweat forming on
my forehead from the intense pain. Why the hell were there so many nerve
endings in a person's urinary tract? Once it was out the pain diminished but
a dull burning sensation remained. Though I'd always been anti-death penalty
I sincerely hoped that when they caught the fuck that had done this to me
they would let a dentist execute him over a period of six or seven hours.
"It might burn a little when you urinate for a while." The nurse
advised me.
Talk about the understatement of the year. It wasn't quite as bad as
the pain of original withdrawal, but it was close. My first piss into the
urinal I'd been provided brought tears to my eyes and made me afraid to piss
again.
Kelly, coming on shift that night, came tromping into my room, her face
stern, my chart in her hands. "You're not peeing enough." She told me
firmly. "If you don't start producing we're gonna put the catheter back in."
"It hurts to pee." I told her. "I don't do it until I really have to."
"Well," She threatened. "You really have to pretty soon." She handed
me a pill cup with two small, orange pills in them. "Take these." She said,
pouring a glass of water from the pitcher at my bedside. "They're Peridium.
They won't do much for the next pee but they'll make it easier after that."
Peridium. Of course. Why hadn't they given that to me before the
catheter had been removed? It was an analgesic commonly given to women with
urinary tract infections (or men with gonorrhea). The first urination after
administration would coat the urinary tract with numbing medicine. I
swallowed them down gratefully.
"Give it twenty minutes." Kelly told me. "And then you HAVE to pee."
I nodded, not looking forward to the next pee at all.
Exactly twenty minutes later, Kelly returned, carrying a urinal in
her hands. She flipped up the covers and, without fanfare, grabbed my cock
and put the head of it in the urinal. I noticed that she wasn't wearing
gloves and even through my fear I enjoyed the feel of her hands against the
flesh of my dick. "Pee!" She ordered.
"But..."
"Pee!" She repeated. "It'll only hurt one more time and then it'll be
numb. Don't make me break out the catheter kit."
"All right, all right." I told her, bracing myself. My bladder WAS
uncomfortably full (thanks to Kelly who had turned up the drip-rate on my IV,
facilitating the process). I pushed and felt the pain surging through me as
piss shot out of my dick into the urinal. The urine was bright orange in
color, a side effect of the Peridium. The pain was intense for a few seconds
and then started to fade as the medicine took hold. By the time the last few
drops dribbled out, I was gratefully pain-free in my urinary tract.
Kelly shook off my cock for me in the urinal. Now that the pain was
gone, I felt myself starting to stiffen a little from the contact with her
hand. She pretended not to notice this as she let go of me. She pulled the
covers back up and held up the urinal, reading the numbers on the side of it.
"One hundred and sixty CCs." She announced, smiling. "Not too bad. It
should be easier from here out."
I returned her smile, not saying anything.
"Let me dump this and I'll come back to give you your bath."
"All right."
She returned about five minutes later, carrying the implements of
bathing with her. A large basin full of warm water, a couple of washcloths,
and two towels. Shutting the door to my room behind her and pulling the
privacy curtain, she pulled the covers off of me and removed my gown, leaving
me naked before her. I immediately felt my dick wanting to stiffen up but,
through extreme force of will, I kept it down. I really must be getting
better, I thought, if my libido is kicking back in.
She began her work, washing and rinsing my chest, my arms, my
armpits. While she did this, I lost the struggle with my dick. It stiffened
up gradually but steadily until it was standing straight up in a salute. I
was mortified at the situation but unable to do anything about it. Kelly
pretended not to notice what she was doing to me but there was a queer smile
on her face as she cleaned.
She rolled me up onto my left side so she could get at my back. My
ribs gave a faint protest but not too much of one. They were healing up
nicely. She washed and rinsed my back and then probed her cloth between the
cheeks of my buttocks, lingering there for a little longer than was normal.
"Anybody ever tell you," She asked pointedly. "That you have a really
nice ass?"
I nearly choked, but recovered quickly. "On occasion." I said.
She chuckled, rolling me back onto my back. She washed my legs and
feet, starting from the bottom and working her way up. At last, she came to
my turgid cock. She eyed it slyly.
"It looks like someone is getting a lot better." She told me, dipping
her washcloth.
"I'm sorry." I muttered, ashamed of myself. "I can't help it."
"It's okay." She assured me, slathering warm water on my balls. "It
happens all the time. You oughtta see what happens when we get teenaged boys
in here." She shook her head in amusement. "I've had them actually come on
me while I was washing them."
"What do you do?" I asked, wonderingly as she began cleaning my dick
itself. Her strokes her firm and very pleasant.
"Well obviously," She said, dipping her washcloth and returning to my
dick. "It's very embarrassing for them. So I do my best to reassure them
that it's normal. I clean them up afterward. To tell you the truth." She
looked around and lowered her voice. "It actually excites me a little when
they do that. Makes me wet if you know what I mean."
I gaped at her, unable to believe my ears at what she was saying.
"You find that odd?" She smiled sexily. "It's nice to know that
even at forty-two you can still make a teenager come in your hand." She
dropped her cloth back in the washbasin and stared at my rigid dick with an
expression that resembled hunger. "Sometimes," She went on, dropping her
bare hand to my thigh and caressing it softly. "I'm tempted to do a little
more for them. You know, jack them off beforehand." Her hand slipped up and
grasped my cock, making me jump slightly. "Even suck them off. I guess
since I married an older man for the wrong reasons I've always been attracted
to younger men." She smiled, her hand starting to glide deliciously up and
down on my cock. "Younger men such as yourself. The teenagers I've never
done anything with. Teenagers can't keep their mouths shut you know." She
continued to jack me off. My hips were now starting to thrust upward a
little. "But you." She said, smiling at me. "You know how to keep your
mouth shut, don't you?"
Eyes wide in surprise and arousal, I nodded at her.
"I thought so." She told me softly. With that she dipped her head
down and took my cock into her mouth. Her lips were soft and teasing as they
sucked gently on me, her head bobbing up and down. Her mouth made wet,
slurping noises.
I moaned my pleasure, running my left hand through her red hair as
she blew me expertly. Whatever else she was, she knew how to suck a cock.
She was bent over me with her hips near my head. Like usual, she was wearing
a scrub skirt and white nylons. I took my right hand and ran it up her
nyloned legs, moving upward. Her skirt rose up as I did this revealing her
upper thighs. When the side of my hand encountered the junction of her firm
legs I felt wetness in her crotch, even through the layer of pantyhose and
panties. I began rubbing her there, causing her to moan slightly around my
cock and thrust her hips a little.
She picked up the pace of her sucking, going for broke. I hadn't come
since the day before I'd headed out for Spokane, and that had been by my own
hand. Despite my injuries there was a backlog in my balls awaiting release.
My hips began to rise off of the bed in a rhythmic pattern. My panting
increased. Her lips and tongue began sucking firmly, her mouth moving rapidly
up and down, her hand jacking on my dick. I ground my hand into her crotch,
squeezing and kneading her, increasing the moisture that was finding it's way
through. Finally the tremors began running up my spine.
"I'm gonna come Kelly." I panted at her, increasing my pelvic and my
arm thrusts.
She moaned her approval and a few seconds later a powerful orgasm
ripped through my body. My dick began spurting wad after wad of pent-up
semen down her throat, causing me a slight tinge of pain from my abused
urinary tract but this was overridden by the feeling of needed release. Her
mouth worked hungrily, drinking it all down.
She slurped and licked me dry, planting kisses on my now wilting dick.
My hand dropped from beneath her skirt. I brought it to my face and was able
to smell the faint odor of her arousal lingering on my skin. Finally she
pulled her head away and stood up, a smile on her face.
"Wow." She grinned. "That was fun."
I nodded, speechless.
She picked up her washcloth again and began cleaning my cock and
balls, professionally and efficiently. "You wouldn't believe." She told me
as she did this. "How turned on this has gotten me. My pussy is drenched.
I'm gonna have to go in the bathroom and rub myself off real quick."
At her words my dick gave a little lurch. "Why go to the bathroom?" I
asked her. "I can help you with that."
"Maybe later." She smiled. "I'll be missed if I'm in here much
longer. The other nurses have already made comments on how they'd like to do
something similar to what we just did. Wouldn't want them thinking anything
is amiss now, would we?"
This was surprising news but I filed it away. "I guess not." I
reluctantly said.
She finished up her washing and then put fresh sheets on the bed (which
involved rolling me this way and that) and put a fresh gown on me. She then
gathered her materials and headed for the door. "See you in a little bit."
She told me saucily, slinking out of the room, a grin on her face.
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