Amanda

The ER is quiet this late at night. An old man is sitting on a chair in the corner, a young man and woman sitting next to him. A wooden cane, presumably his, is strewn across the vacant seats. At one point, the man left for about twenty minutes, before returning with a grocery bag of snack food and cheap blankets. I can hear the young people begging the old man eats a few morsels of food. All three of them shroud themselves in the blankets.

When they don't whisper quiet murmurs to each other, the soft bubble of the fish tank is the only noise that fills the room.

Though my phone sits in my pocket, I have no desire to use it. It sits, a brick in the back of my pants. I've moved seats three times in the past hour, though it might as well have been days. I've ended up in front of the fish tank, my eyes glossing over as the fish fill my view.

I don't know anything about the fish that have been my only means of escape for this long hour. There's two or three Clownfish, and a wide variety of other bright fish.

A small part of my mind can't help but be angry with these fish, their simple minds and serenity. They swim, stupidly through the water.

These dumb fish don't know about fire.

Fire.

These dumb fish don't know what it means to be driving your car, and seeing your fiancée in the car to your right. Being happy to see someone you love.

They don't understand the joy that you can feel, laughing to yourself as you drive, side by side on the freeway, heading towards home from the restaurant.

And the fish will never understand the way your heart stops when you see fire out of your right eye.

They don't have feet to slam on the brakes, don't have eyes in the front of their heads to watch as their lover's car is flipped on the road in front of them, fire starting in the the engine before erupting towards the passenger cabin.

A doctor enters the room, his footsteps prying the room's attention from grief-filled thoughts.

He holds a clipboard, and as he flips the front page up to find a name, I notice the other three staring hungrily at him, knowing very well that I am doing the same. We are wolves, ready to fight for even the smallest bit of news.

"Amanda Dobety."

My body jerks up before my mind comprehends it. I don't know if I'm walking or running to him, ready to tear him open for a word of news.

He doesn't make me tear.

He mumbles a few words to me, most of which I don't quite catch. He tells me to call her family. He tells me they aren't sure if she'll make it.

Blunt.

I am sent back to my seat, this time choosing one away from the fish.

I pull my phone out from my pocket, the object feeling foreign in my hand. I try to call her sister first, only to be sent to voicemail. I hang up and try again. And agian, until I remember hearing that her sister was flying a few states over for work. The next call is to her parents, the phone rings twice before her mother's groggy voice fills my ears. She asks why I'm calling her so late.

I tell her.

A cry cuts through the phone and burns my ear, and I can hear her shaking her husband awake before I hang up. They live half an hour away from where their daughter lay dying.

My phone now rests in my lap. I turn it on twice a minute, watching the time slowly tick. I get a call from her mother. I repeat all I know, talking around her shrieks.

As I hang up, another doctor walks in, calling for Beverly Torret. The young woman darts up before he finishes, and she places her hand on her chest and sighs with relief before thanking the doctor a thousand times. She almost skips back to her companions, wiping the old man's face as a joyous tear dances down his cheek.

The man and woman lean together and kiss, before the man lowers his head and prays.

My mind hates their happiness. But I am merely jealous. They must have hated me when the other doctor arrived first, envious at the prospect of knowing.

I get another call from Amanda's mother. I tell her that I know nothing, before letting her hang up this time. They are fifteen minutes away.

It is only then that the thought crosses my mind. My Amanda might not have fifteen minutes. Or ten, or seven, or four, or one. A doctor might step into the room now, shaking his head and telling me to go home. I saved her from the fiery wreck that had been her car, but not fast enough.

Her parents should be here in twelve minutes. The other people are being led to a room, getting the chance to be reunited in joy. I am alone in the room, the fish don't count.

Nine minutes left until her parents get here. I check my phone again as a doctor enters the room, and tells me hurry. I must be bolting from my seat, I hear my phone fall to the ground.

We walk with haste down the hall, as the doctor reassures what I already knew. He tells me they've done all they can. He tells me they tried.

He leads me to a room where a nurse stands against the wall, staring loosely at Amanda.

Amanda, who lays on the bed as her chest rises and falls in choas, as pained sounds squeeze through her lips. Her body is covered entirely by a navy blue sheet, hiding the severe burns I know she has.

Her eyes open and close rapidly as I stumble over to her, her face mostly unscathed. The corners of her mouth claw upwards, her best attempt to smile. She mutters something that sounds like my name, before her eyes begin to flutter closed.

I slide my hand beneath her head, lifting it slightly as I brought my lips down to hers.

Somewhere in that time her lips went limp, my kiss falling on a lifeless body.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, the nurse. She tries to console me. I slide my hand away from my dear Amanda, before asking to be excused.

"I need to make some phone calls."