“Please,” his blue eyes begged beneath his terry hood.
I could not meet those eyes. All my paramedic skills could not restore the child he had pulled from the pool during the frantic short drive to the hospital. Instead I reached out my hand while others removed the small body from the Jaguar to take their turn at resuscitating.
We were guests of Mr. Parish. The party was the typical lavish affair he threw for his political and business connections I had no business being at; the only reason I was invited every year was I managed to save his life after a heart arrest. I don’t know whose daughter we had tried to save or the name of the man who jumped in the pool fully clothed. His Gravait shoes must of sunk to the cement bottom by now.
The man pulled on my hand until our bodies touched. His head fell to my shoulder, and his svelte tall frame tried to curl into my much smaller form. I felt shakes from cold, exhaustion, failure, and sobs begin to rack his body. We would need to get him out of the wet clothes before he went into shock.
I watch as a Rolls-Royce, a few high-end Mercedes, and a limo frantically race into the parking lot. I pull my Knight-in-Sopping armor into the shadows of the entrance. The limo ejects a couple who are clearly the parents. Mr. and Mrs. Parish escort them through the doors. Mr. Parish makes eye contact with me for a second; I watch hope leave his eyes as he takes in my situation. None of the others notice me and my companion.
(Words 278 – originally appearing at Sunday Fun on Breathless Press 3/3/2013 (photo of unknown copyright); republished new blog format 3/25/2018)