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snow, as if he were an angel on a dissecting table. The wind whistled through his coat, a husk of human skin underneath. My father called, “Easton?” He drove closer and turned off the quad’s engine, saying, “Easton?” And then we were off the four-wheeler, running. The snow gave way to our footsteps, the white accumulated flakes crunching beneath us. An acidic taste formed in my mouth, and I spit. With each footfall, my father kept saying, “Easton?” Now upon him, we could see the blanked-out expression on Easton’s face, glazed over with his eyes wide, unbelieving. His rollercoaster-ride arms flared out in both directions above his head, his legs following suit. Dad grasped Easton’s shoulder vise-like and shook him, saying, “Easton?” A droop of yellow-brown goop dripped out the side of the little man’s mouth. “Easton?” My father lifted Easton’s head and a stream of blood ensued, emitting a crimson red into the snow. Dad dropped Easton’s head to the ground, my father’s eyes fully dilated, and he whispered, “Easton.” Dad turned to me and said, “This isn’t good.” No snap. No flash. No click. No shit? More yellow-brown fluid flowed out of Easton’s mouth, and I wanted to roll him over so he wouldn’t choke to death, but if I lifted his head more blood would’ve spurted out of the cranial wound. It was as if there was a choice in all this— he could either choke on his own blood or bleed out. Beside Easton, the stump and rocks were both covered in red. His hands hovering over the little man, he said, “I’ll go get help. Stay with him.” I nodded, and just as my father got up to find a savior, Kristen ran towards us with her camera swinging around her neck, screaming. She screamed, “Oh God, there’s so much blood…” And my father yelled, “Honey, call 9-1-1!” I was alone with Easton while my father calmed down his wife. I reassured Easton, mostly reassuring myself, saying, “You’re gonna be fine. God’s not gonna let you die today.” More blood filtered out the back of his head, staining the snow. “You’re gonna be just fine.” I felt as though I was speaking with the dead. It scared me. Somewhere between all the reassurances the paramedics arrived, sirens blaring as they rolled down our gravel driveway. Two EMTs threw open the doors and opened the back of the ambulance to retrieve a gurney from inside. Kristen was still vomiting her voice box so the paramedics said, “Ma’am, we need you to calm down.” The EMTs brought the gurney over to Easton without much immediacy, and when they rolled him over, another stream of yellow-brown fluid tumbled down the side of his mouth. A large spray of pomegranate-colored juice fell from his head wound, so much so that it seemed like the wound encompassed the entirety of the back of his head.

BRAUN

OAR

67

Profile for Oakland Arts Review

Oakland Arts Review Volume 4  

Oakland Arts Review Volume 4  

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