Without wasting another moment, I lift her with my right side and bring her to the closest building. I help the young woman sit with her back against the brick wall and instantaneously ask her:

"What's your name?"

Logically, getting attached to patients is not the smartest move, but I like to know people's names, especially if I am going to help them. I have found that calling an injured person by their name often builds a slight bond between us and portrays me as an overall trustworthy individual. Humanizing the people that I am trying my best to save is one of the ways I use to convey hope. It shows them that I care and they matter.

She replies with a genuine grin, and her voice is playful despite being tainted with pain.

"Cheryl. What's yours, savior?"

"Tanza." I offer her a reassuring smile. "So, Cheryl, can I borrow your jacket? I need something to cover your injury. Once my coworkers get here, they will give you proper medical care, okay?"

She nods. "Sure."

I lean in to grab the black bomber jacket that is tied by its sleeves around her lean waist. Thankfully, she is not sitting on it, so I can easily slip the piece of clothing away and employ it for the purpose I intended for it.

While I am knotting her jacket tightly enough to prevent any more external bleeding, but not enough that the nylon will catch in her ribs, I watch her face. Strands of her long brown hair sway with the autumnal breeze and brush the sides of it, along with the frame of her busted glasses. Without considering the numerous cuts and bruises, her skin appears to be extremely well-maintained. Her features are discernibly precise and proportional. When she isn't suffering and coming out of a road accident, Cheryl must be astronomically beautiful. I doubt her beauty ever goes unnoticed and this is proof of it.

What am I doing?

"Thank you." Her voice is hoarse, yet clearly expresses her gratitude.

"It's nothing," I tell my patient.

I walk away, glancing one last time into her eerily green eyes.

The next victim I spot is a young boy, bawling at the side of a motionless woman. I hurriedly reach their side. The child turns to me, with heavy tears spurting out of his wide blue eyes. He immediately inquires:

"Is she okay?!"

His question surprises me. I could be literally anyone. I guess children truly are more trusting and less prone to apply a filter to what they tell others...

"I can check. My name is Tanza. I am a paramedic."

"Okay, Tanza, do it! I'm Sam, by the way."

"I will, but before I do, are you hurt, Sam?"

"No! Help her, please! I'm fine!"

I kneel down and, without even needing to feel the woman's pulse, I know she is dead. An enormous gash deforms her neck and her face is visibly drained from any life, above her blood-soaked scarf. Regardless, I set my fingers against her wrist to attempt to feel her pulse. Expectantly, I do not find it. Her skin is cold and lifeless. I sigh under my breath, worried about the kid's reaction. In my experience, a simple - yet benevolent - announcement gets the message across compassionately and avoids any possible confusion.

"Is my mom okay?!" he asks, nearly screaming.

I spin to look at him, maintaining my position to be his height. "Your mother is not alive anymore."

I give him time to process the unfortunate fact. While he cries, I add:

"Hey, little one, look at me. Do you see that young woman, over there?" I point at Cheryl.

Sobbing, he shakes his head in agreement. I speak to him in short, precise sentences, watching my tone to make sure it remains gentle.

"Good. I want you to sit next to her, okay? I'll be sending everyone who gets hurt there. Another paramedic will help you soon. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes..."

I raise and hold out my hand to guide him towards the building against which I left my first patient to rest.

~

I distractedly fidget with the strap of my first responder bag, climbing the stairs from the emergency department into the regular sections of Gotham General Hospital. I look out towards the ambulance parking outside through the light gray blinds that cover one of the multiple large windows which brighten up the otherwise dull corridors. This wasn't what I'd call a great start to my 12 hour shift. My uniform reeks of smoke and blood. I need to clean myself up quickly, I obviously cannot stay in these clothes until 8h30 tonight.

"Tanza, wait up!"

I stop in my tracks, hearing an energetic voice call out my name. I slowly turn, moving my back closer to the wall, and divert my focus to my colleague.

"Hey, Colin."

He skids to a halt once he's facing me, interrupting his determined strides. "That was some really good work you did, you were amazing, Tanza! You should be proud of yourself. There's no way Dorothy won't congratulate you for this."

The 26-year-old man is grinning at me eagerly, with his thumbs hooked inside his pockets.

"Oh, you know, I just accomplished my duty. You or Leah would've done the same thing."

Colin scratches the back of his head, simultaneously ruffling his medium-length dark blonde hair. A scar crosses the left ala of his nose and goes down to his upper lip on the same side. He got it during a fight with an aggressive patient one year ago, and the mark folds in symphony with his mouth whenever he moves it.

"We might have, but you saved a ton of lives by being on the scene before us and helping the victims out."

"Well, thanks. Speaking of..." I drive my eyes around us, making sure no one is eavesdropping. "I was looking for someone I tried to help earlier. Did you meet a 'Cheryl' among the injured?"

"No," he begins, thoughtfully. "What did she look like? Or, maybe, tell me her condition..?"

"Caucasian, female, in her twenties, with long brown hair and piercing green eyes. Her stomach was slashed, and there should have been a jacket tied around her wounds."

He chuckles. "That was precise, did you have that prepared?" His light gray irises are sparkling with a joking glint.

"Barely." I reply, amused.

"Yeah, that doesn't ring any bells, though, sorry, Tanza. Maybe we're not the ones who picked her up, if you get what I'm saying." He means body removal technicians, who work for morgues.  "I checked pretty much everybody out because I was keeping count, but Scott was helping me, so you could always ask him, too."

"I will if we cross paths soon. Thanks, anyway."

"Anytime, anytime... Hey, your shift ends at 8 or something, right?"

"It does, I'll be done at 8h30."

"Alright. Well, Leah, Max and I all have tomorrow off and we were thinking of going out in the evening. Are you available? It'll only be us and maybe a few of Leah's friends. You know, the ones who came to Scott's birthday party."

I do not believe it's necessary to tell him I was not at Scott's birthday party.

My coworkers are friendly, they are - for the most part - undeniably good people. It only makes sense that emergency medical technicians are well-meaning. Rare are those who become paramedics for the awarded paycheck. They respect the fact that I am non-binary. They use 'they/them' pronouns and gender-neutral terms whenever they are referring to me. They call me "Tanza", the name I chose to answer to. It is a more androgynous version of my birth name, Constanza. Still, they're colleagues, not my friends. And I do not care how pathetic and sad this sounds, but I don't have friends. Not anymore. I lost the few I had long ago. I'm okay with it. I will not pretend that I am attempting to make new ones, though. I would be lying if I did. My current lifestyle suits me... I am much happier living my truth in Gotham than I was in my hometown, crushed beneath the weight of having to play a role and deny my identity every day.

"I don't think I'll really be in the mood tomorrow..." I started off matter-of-factly, however Colin's face suddenly becomes disappointed, and I hastily switch to a warmer tone of voice. "You should text me, though. If I'm not feeling too tired, I could always pop by."

My coworker smiles, seemingly satisfied. "I will. Don't worry about it, Tanza, I'm not gonna be too upset if you miss this one. You should do what's best for you. Speaking of, you were heading somewhere, weren't you? I'll let you go."

"Yeah, I was. Thanks anyway, Colin. I'll see you around!"

~

I stand in the emergency medical technicians' locker room, in front of the wall-wide mirrors which are attached to the generic painted brick wall behind four sinks linked by a single countertop. I wiped my face, shoulders and arms with clean towels. I was grateful for the cold water, it made me alert once more and broke me out of my daze. I could not stop thinking about Cheryl, but I am much more focused, now. She is not necessarily dead... Not necessarily. People die every day, I should not be so stuck over her. I have become an expert at shielding myself from others and yet... She was pretty and all, but that cannot be what affected me this deeply.

No.

That's not it, it wasn't her, per se.

It was her eyes.