Amish Romance: The Miracle Named Maria (Victor and Maria: Book 1), Page 2
Anna King
Strangers were seldom in our land, and when they do come, they were simply looking for someone to point them to the right direction because they got lost. This man, however, was a different story.
By the looks of the damage in the scene, he fell from the thirty-foot high cliff lining the borders of our farm. The boulder that fell with him crushed a few square meters of our crops, but the most damage, however, was on the stranger. He must have hit his head on a rock as he rolled on the steep slant of the brown rocky precipice, and landed unconscious.
My brothers found him this morning, and thought he was a cadaver dumped by bad men. He was pale, dry and thinning. Even I would have thought the same.
They brought him to me first, however, when they heard him moan. I’m not really a doctor for humans, but I do have the necessary skills to save one -- as long as the injuries were within saving.
Paul and Mark gingerly set the stranger on my table. His eyes fluttered open as I inspect his entire body for injuries. Though it was barely there, his heartbeat was strong enough.
“You’re gonna be alright,” I whispered, but as soon as I said that, he lost consciousness once more.
My hands moved through the vital points of his body and searched for wounds and inconsistencies. Apart from countless scratches on his arms, and bruises all over his body, his only major injury was on the head. No broken bones, sprained joints, or signs of poisoning -- nothing that cannot be fixed. And it seemed his unconsciousness was mainly caused by dehydration.
His head injury only needed stitching, and so I went to the corner of my little clinic to get the necessary tools. After sterilizing each, I went on ahead with the minor operation.
It may not show, but this man was making me nervous. Animals have died in my hands before, and for various reasons -- some were truly beyond saving, but a few perished due to my shortcomings. And each of them took a piece of me -- may it be a string of confidence, happiness, or peace -- and I fear that I have very few strings left. What worries me now was this man. What if he dies under my care too? I would have owed his family, his wife, and his kids if I lose him now. What would be left of me then?
911 was not an option for us. What if someone really had ill intentions against this stranger? Neighboring towns and cities were riddled with gangsters, and these hooligans keep tabs on hospitals and their patients. We’re not entirely sure, but they might be tapping on emergency lines as well.
I remembered the story Old Jeffrey once told us, about the injured man he saw in his barn one night. Not knowing what to do, he called the cops over along with 911. Only the cops arrived (or so they say), and they took the man without much ado -- no explanations, no questioning, no further searching, no nothing. Old Jeffrey didn’t dare protest against the oddity of their actions for they were armed. He simply prayed and laid all his trust on the good Lord that the man be placed in good hands.
The following day, however, as Old Jeff drove to town, police cars flanked an area beside the road. Traffic enforcers signaled them to slow down. But as he passed by the gap between the ambulance and the police car, just before the coroners zipped the body bag, he recognized the man in the barn. It was wrong to make assumptions about anything, but he could not help but think that he just gave the poor man away to hoodlums.
We cannot risk the same event to happen again, that’s why I’m risking my sanity to save this man’s life.
I shook my head to take the thought off my mind. Who would even die from having his wound stitched? It’s not like I’m performing heart surgery or anything. Get a grip on yourself, girl!
The stranger moaned and twitched. Not even his unconsciousness can spare him from the pain. It may be wrong, but that gave me relief. He’s alive.
“Paul, I need you to get me a liter of clean drinking water and sugar,” I ordered. The stitching was almost done, and this man needed to be rehydrated next.
“Gotcha, sis,” he obeyed. Paul was younger by five years, but he’s taller than me now. Still lean and lanky, but he’ll soon look like our eldest, Mark.
“Mark, go to town and buy me a whole pack of Gatorade. Before you come here, prepare a bowl of oats and add in a slice of bread.” Mark nodded without a word. He was a man of few words after all.
I cut the thread, cleaned the wound and tapped the stranger’s face to keep him awake.
“Wake up,” I said softly. “Sir, I need you to wake up.”
He responded with more moaning. The twitching had stopped, but his hands had begun moving. Every movement was uncoordinated, but it’s still progress. It means he’s healing, and fast. And finally, he opened his eyes.
That was when I noticed how strikingly blue his irises were, and how stunningly they looked being framed by thick black brows and long eyelashes. The more I stare into them, the more I understood the saying ‘our eyes are the windows to our soul’. And from what I see, I say he’s as cold as ice, but as beautiful as a snowflake.
My mind wandered off and wondered who this man was and where he came from. I could only guess from the tattoos on his body (which he had a lot), and how he was dressed -- fitted black shirt, fading jeans, and black leather boots. It seemed he’s someone to be feared, especially for a girl like me, but it also seemed he’s in dire need of security and love. It was only now that I realized how much of a mystery he was, how much I wanted to ask him what his life was like, and how he became what he was.
His eyes found mine and I felt myself stiffened. I didn’t know I was already leaning so close, and that my fingers were still brushing his face. It seemed he finally found coordination too, because he grabbed my hand. My stomach quenched in an unfamiliar way.
What do I do now?
III: Victor
By the looks of the damage in the scene, he fell from the thirty-foot high cliff lining the borders of our farm. The boulder that fell with him crushed a few square meters of our crops, but the most damage, however, was on the stranger. He must have hit his head on a rock as he rolled on the steep slant of the brown rocky precipice, and landed unconscious.
My brothers found him this morning, and thought he was a cadaver dumped by bad men. He was pale, dry and thinning. Even I would have thought the same.
They brought him to me first, however, when they heard him moan. I’m not really a doctor for humans, but I do have the necessary skills to save one -- as long as the injuries were within saving.
Paul and Mark gingerly set the stranger on my table. His eyes fluttered open as I inspect his entire body for injuries. Though it was barely there, his heartbeat was strong enough.
“You’re gonna be alright,” I whispered, but as soon as I said that, he lost consciousness once more.
My hands moved through the vital points of his body and searched for wounds and inconsistencies. Apart from countless scratches on his arms, and bruises all over his body, his only major injury was on the head. No broken bones, sprained joints, or signs of poisoning -- nothing that cannot be fixed. And it seemed his unconsciousness was mainly caused by dehydration.
His head injury only needed stitching, and so I went to the corner of my little clinic to get the necessary tools. After sterilizing each, I went on ahead with the minor operation.
It may not show, but this man was making me nervous. Animals have died in my hands before, and for various reasons -- some were truly beyond saving, but a few perished due to my shortcomings. And each of them took a piece of me -- may it be a string of confidence, happiness, or peace -- and I fear that I have very few strings left. What worries me now was this man. What if he dies under my care too? I would have owed his family, his wife, and his kids if I lose him now. What would be left of me then?
911 was not an option for us. What if someone really had ill intentions against this stranger? Neighboring towns and cities were riddled with gangsters, and these hooligans keep tabs on hospitals and their patients. We’re not entirely sure, but they might be tapping on emergency lines as well.
I remembered the story Old Jeffrey once told us, about the injured man he saw in his barn one night. Not knowing what to do, he called the cops over along with 911. Only the cops arrived (or so they say), and they took the man without much ado -- no explanations, no questioning, no further searching, no nothing. Old Jeffrey didn’t dare protest against the oddity of their actions for they were armed. He simply prayed and laid all his trust on the good Lord that the man be placed in good hands.
The following day, however, as Old Jeff drove to town, police cars flanked an area beside the road. Traffic enforcers signaled them to slow down. But as he passed by the gap between the ambulance and the police car, just before the coroners zipped the body bag, he recognized the man in the barn. It was wrong to make assumptions about anything, but he could not help but think that he just gave the poor man away to hoodlums.
We cannot risk the same event to happen again, that’s why I’m risking my sanity to save this man’s life.
I shook my head to take the thought off my mind. Who would even die from having his wound stitched? It’s not like I’m performing heart surgery or anything. Get a grip on yourself, girl!
The stranger moaned and twitched. Not even his unconsciousness can spare him from the pain. It may be wrong, but that gave me relief. He’s alive.
“Paul, I need you to get me a liter of clean drinking water and sugar,” I ordered. The stitching was almost done, and this man needed to be rehydrated next.
“Gotcha, sis,” he obeyed. Paul was younger by five years, but he’s taller than me now. Still lean and lanky, but he’ll soon look like our eldest, Mark.
“Mark, go to town and buy me a whole pack of Gatorade. Before you come here, prepare a bowl of oats and add in a slice of bread.” Mark nodded without a word. He was a man of few words after all.
I cut the thread, cleaned the wound and tapped the stranger’s face to keep him awake.
“Wake up,” I said softly. “Sir, I need you to wake up.”
He responded with more moaning. The twitching had stopped, but his hands had begun moving. Every movement was uncoordinated, but it’s still progress. It means he’s healing, and fast. And finally, he opened his eyes.
That was when I noticed how strikingly blue his irises were, and how stunningly they looked being framed by thick black brows and long eyelashes. The more I stare into them, the more I understood the saying ‘our eyes are the windows to our soul’. And from what I see, I say he’s as cold as ice, but as beautiful as a snowflake.
My mind wandered off and wondered who this man was and where he came from. I could only guess from the tattoos on his body (which he had a lot), and how he was dressed -- fitted black shirt, fading jeans, and black leather boots. It seemed he’s someone to be feared, especially for a girl like me, but it also seemed he’s in dire need of security and love. It was only now that I realized how much of a mystery he was, how much I wanted to ask him what his life was like, and how he became what he was.
His eyes found mine and I felt myself stiffened. I didn’t know I was already leaning so close, and that my fingers were still brushing his face. It seemed he finally found coordination too, because he grabbed my hand. My stomach quenched in an unfamiliar way.
What do I do now?
III: Victor
