wonder he hadn’t
responded to my text messages! No wonder he hadn’t been asking me where I was
or keeping his usual tabs on me!
All of this time, for
hours, she’d been dancing, drinking and laughing with her friends. Meanwhile,
Logan had been here, alone on the sofa, bleeding to death. She felt like the
worst person in the world. She felt simply awful. He'd never even wanted them
to go to the wedding, but he'd gone with her. She should've been back earlier!
What if he died
because I'm such a selfish, terrible girlfriend?
An unbelievably
overwhelming feeling of guilt swamped over her, followed by sheer terror and panic.
I have to do something!
What? What should I do? Is he dead? Is he alive?
She realized whether he
was alive or not, she had to believe he still had a chance. She'd call an
ambulance. That's what she'd do!
Suddenly, she leapt into action;
she ran to her handbag by the front door and snatched out her phone. Her
fingers were trembling badly and she felt weak as she dialed 911. It suddenly felt
as if she were in a dream. Nothing felt real to her.
In the back of her mind,
she kept repeating things like, "This isn't happening," "This
is just a nightmare," "this can't be real," "I'm going to
wake up," and, "Logan's okay."
Charlotte quickly got through
to the emergency services and tried to explain, as calmly as possible, what had
happened and where she was, giving their address. She felt a strange mixture of
panic and detachment, still unsure if this was really happening. She continued
to tell herself that it couldn't be real, although deep down, she knew the
horrific truth.
The woman on the other
end of the phone was very professional. She helped Charlotte remain calm and
kept her on the phone talking until the ambulance arrived. The lady talked her
through checking for some of Logan's vital signs. With help, she found a very
weak pulse. He was still alive, she confirmed.
He's alive! Thank God!
He's not dead! He has a chance!
At the sound of sirens in
the distance, Charlotte hung up the phone and dashed out onto the front lawn.
She stood outside, frantically waving her arms above her head like a mad woman.
She wanted to flag them down, in case they didn’t know where they were going.
She was somehow afraid that they might miss the house without her there. She
was sure they wouldn’t, but at the same time, she didn’t want to take any
chances.
“He’s in there,” she told
the team of paramedic, who burst out of the ambulance and ran around to the
rear before unloading the stretcher and a bag full of medical supplies.
“He's in the living room,
on the sofa. It's on your right as soon as you walk in the front door,” she
said numbly.
One of them merely nodded
in response to show her they’d understood, and then ran into the house.
Charlotte followed swiftly behind them, wanting to make sure they found him and
they weren’t too rough with him. She was panicking, fretting over the smallest
details. She couldn't remember ever feeling so helpless in her life.
“He's got a gunshot wound
to his upper right chest,” she heard the young paramedic say. The woman couldn’t
have been much older than twenty-five.
“He’s lost a lot of
blood, but the injury itself isn’t fatal,” the paramedic stated.
It took Charlotte a while
to realize the paramedic was talking to her. She'd been in a daze, just staring
at Logan’s lifeless-looking, bloody body as they lifted him gently onto the
stretcher.
Two words repeatedly echoed
in her mind, 'gunshot wound.'
How could Logan have
been shot? He was only going to work…wherever that was.
“Yes…” she managed to
choke out, suddenly feeling quite dizzy and sick. Suddenly, she became aware of
a hand on her elbow, guiding her to the door.
“You’re coming along to
the hospital with him, aren’t you? If so, you need to leave with us. We’re
taking him to the hospital now.”
Of course, she was coming
to the hospital. She just needed to figure out
responded to my text messages! No wonder he hadn’t been asking me where I was
or keeping his usual tabs on me!
All of this time, for
hours, she’d been dancing, drinking and laughing with her friends. Meanwhile,
Logan had been here, alone on the sofa, bleeding to death. She felt like the
worst person in the world. She felt simply awful. He'd never even wanted them
to go to the wedding, but he'd gone with her. She should've been back earlier!
What if he died
because I'm such a selfish, terrible girlfriend?
An unbelievably
overwhelming feeling of guilt swamped over her, followed by sheer terror and panic.
I have to do something!
What? What should I do? Is he dead? Is he alive?
She realized whether he
was alive or not, she had to believe he still had a chance. She'd call an
ambulance. That's what she'd do!
Suddenly, she leapt into action;
she ran to her handbag by the front door and snatched out her phone. Her
fingers were trembling badly and she felt weak as she dialed 911. It suddenly felt
as if she were in a dream. Nothing felt real to her.
In the back of her mind,
she kept repeating things like, "This isn't happening," "This
is just a nightmare," "this can't be real," "I'm going to
wake up," and, "Logan's okay."
Charlotte quickly got through
to the emergency services and tried to explain, as calmly as possible, what had
happened and where she was, giving their address. She felt a strange mixture of
panic and detachment, still unsure if this was really happening. She continued
to tell herself that it couldn't be real, although deep down, she knew the
horrific truth.
The woman on the other
end of the phone was very professional. She helped Charlotte remain calm and
kept her on the phone talking until the ambulance arrived. The lady talked her
through checking for some of Logan's vital signs. With help, she found a very
weak pulse. He was still alive, she confirmed.
He's alive! Thank God!
He's not dead! He has a chance!
At the sound of sirens in
the distance, Charlotte hung up the phone and dashed out onto the front lawn.
She stood outside, frantically waving her arms above her head like a mad woman.
She wanted to flag them down, in case they didn’t know where they were going.
She was somehow afraid that they might miss the house without her there. She
was sure they wouldn’t, but at the same time, she didn’t want to take any
chances.
“He’s in there,” she told
the team of paramedic, who burst out of the ambulance and ran around to the
rear before unloading the stretcher and a bag full of medical supplies.
“He's in the living room,
on the sofa. It's on your right as soon as you walk in the front door,” she
said numbly.
One of them merely nodded
in response to show her they’d understood, and then ran into the house.
Charlotte followed swiftly behind them, wanting to make sure they found him and
they weren’t too rough with him. She was panicking, fretting over the smallest
details. She couldn't remember ever feeling so helpless in her life.
“He's got a gunshot wound
to his upper right chest,” she heard the young paramedic say. The woman couldn’t
have been much older than twenty-five.
“He’s lost a lot of
blood, but the injury itself isn’t fatal,” the paramedic stated.
It took Charlotte a while
to realize the paramedic was talking to her. She'd been in a daze, just staring
at Logan’s lifeless-looking, bloody body as they lifted him gently onto the
stretcher.
Two words repeatedly echoed
in her mind, 'gunshot wound.'
How could Logan have
been shot? He was only going to work…wherever that was.
“Yes…” she managed to
choke out, suddenly feeling quite dizzy and sick. Suddenly, she became aware of
a hand on her elbow, guiding her to the door.
“You’re coming along to
the hospital with him, aren’t you? If so, you need to leave with us. We’re
taking him to the hospital now.”
Of course, she was coming
to the hospital. She just needed to figure out
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