Chapter Nine
When a doctor uses a defibrillator on a patient in common forms of entertainment, the patient exhibits a sudden convulsion, sometimes causing his or her chest to be thrust upwards.
In reality, this is extremely uncommon. Normally a minor tensing of the muscles occurs, but generally not to such a great extent.
When the doctor used the debrillator on his nameless patient, it took three times to get a steady rhythm back.
None of those times involved the exaggeration shown on television.
They operated on him for two grueling hours, re-inflating his lung and setting his ribs.
"How was he out of the car?"
"I have no idea. Think he'll remember?"
"Doubt it. PTSD is gonna hit 'em hard."
"Yeh think?"
"Yeah."
He was unconscious for a few hours after the surgery, but he came to the morning after.
"Well, well. Look who's back. Welcome back to life, Vanquisher."
An African-American nurse smiled down at him.
"What did you call me?"
"Vanquisher. That's what you told the nice intern that was talking to you before you coded."
"My name is Voah."
"Voah. What is that?"
"It's my name."
"I mean nationality-wise, smart guy."
"I..." he paused, trying to remember. "I don't know."
"You're in a bit of a daze, there. The name's Judy. Can you sit up at all?"
Voah struggled off of his back, glancing around the sparsely furnished room.
"Where am I?"
"Augusta Medial Center, Virginia."
"There was a woman in the car with me. Where is she?"
"She..."
The nurse looked at the floor.
"She flatlined on the way, Voah. I'm sorry."
Voah turned to the window.
He felt no sorrow.
He felt no sadness.
He felt nothing.
"Thank you. For telling me."
The nurse stared for a second, amazed at the lack of emotion.
"Who was she?"
Voah looked over, emotionless. "My foster mother."
"Oh."
The nurse made an awkward exit.
Voah eyes continued to flit around the room, pausing to rest on the few items of interest.
He remembered vaguely why he was here.
A car accident.
What had happened?
He did not remember.
He lay back in his bed, staring at the ceiling.
Why did I tell them my name is vanquisher?
Is my name Voah?
Why? Since when?
Another man walked in, this one in street clothes.
He shut the door.
"Vanquisher, is it? That's pretty good."
He paused, smiling.
"We need to talk."
The man walked to the door, locking it.
He reached into his jacket, pulling out his pistol.
Voah looked back up at the ceiling.
In reality, this is extremely uncommon. Normally a minor tensing of the muscles occurs, but generally not to such a great extent.
When the doctor used the debrillator on his nameless patient, it took three times to get a steady rhythm back.
None of those times involved the exaggeration shown on television.
They operated on him for two grueling hours, re-inflating his lung and setting his ribs.
"How was he out of the car?"
"I have no idea. Think he'll remember?"
"Doubt it. PTSD is gonna hit 'em hard."
"Yeh think?"
"Yeah."
He was unconscious for a few hours after the surgery, but he came to the morning after.
"Well, well. Look who's back. Welcome back to life, Vanquisher."
An African-American nurse smiled down at him.
"What did you call me?"
"Vanquisher. That's what you told the nice intern that was talking to you before you coded."
"My name is Voah."
"Voah. What is that?"
"It's my name."
"I mean nationality-wise, smart guy."
"I..." he paused, trying to remember. "I don't know."
"You're in a bit of a daze, there. The name's Judy. Can you sit up at all?"
Voah struggled off of his back, glancing around the sparsely furnished room.
"Where am I?"
"Augusta Medial Center, Virginia."
"There was a woman in the car with me. Where is she?"
"She..."
The nurse looked at the floor.
"She flatlined on the way, Voah. I'm sorry."
Voah turned to the window.
He felt no sorrow.
He felt no sadness.
He felt nothing.
"Thank you. For telling me."
The nurse stared for a second, amazed at the lack of emotion.
"Who was she?"
Voah looked over, emotionless. "My foster mother."
"Oh."
The nurse made an awkward exit.
Voah eyes continued to flit around the room, pausing to rest on the few items of interest.
He remembered vaguely why he was here.
A car accident.
What had happened?
He did not remember.
He lay back in his bed, staring at the ceiling.
Why did I tell them my name is vanquisher?
Is my name Voah?
Why? Since when?
Another man walked in, this one in street clothes.
He shut the door.
"Vanquisher, is it? That's pretty good."
He paused, smiling.
"We need to talk."
The man walked to the door, locking it.
He reached into his jacket, pulling out his pistol.
Voah looked back up at the ceiling.
