The Unforgiven Fragment taken from: The Storyteller, Volume V The woman turned to look at us and said, “Would you mind turning your friend a little bit to the other side? I don’t want blood on the seat, dear. It doesn’t come off easily, you know? This car is part of my husband’s exclusive collection.” “That’s right, boys. This is a 1953 Cadillac convertible, one of the first ones to have leather upholstery and polished-wood dashboards,” Lloyd said, smiling while he patted the dashboard proudly.

You better belive.

I stared at both blankly—and very surprised—at the ongoing conversation.

“Are you taking us to a hospital?” I asked, feeling that these people were not in their right minds.

“Oh, sure, honey!” the woman said smiling, and she turned to her husband to say, “Step on it, dear.” “So, are you guys old enough to vote?” Lloyd asked while looking at me in his rearview mirror.

“W-what?” I asked, confused.

“I guess what we want to know is if you guys are Democrat or Republican,” the woman said with a smile.

“We’re fourteen,” I said with a blank stare.

“Oh, they are too young to vote, dear.” The woman turned to her husband.

“Well, it’s a shame. But it is not too early to start looking at your options, young man,” he said, waving his finger.

We stopped at a red light.

“Could you hurry up? My friend doesn’t look very good,” I said, concerned. I felt cold sweat running down my back.

The woman turned around and said to me, “Well, there are a few traffic lights we have to follow here, dear. Besides, we are about ten more minutes from St. Joseph’s Hospital; I’m sure they will take your friend there….”

Ten minutes —and a few more political comments later— we made it to the ER. I was covered in sweat and was shaking, too; Martin seemed to be unresponsive. I got scared and jumped out of the car to get help. I hoped those crazy people would not speed off with my friend still inside the car.

They didn’t. I found help and rushed back to the car. Two paramedics got my friend out of the car and onto a stretcher. Martin didn’t look good at all.

As we rushed inside I noticed the couple in the car driving away. I didn’t have time to thank them for the lift.

“What happened?” one of the paramedics asked me while I ran next to them.

“He got shot in the stomach … about twenty-five minutes ago….”

“Okay, young man, this is as far as you go.” A nurse cut me off.

I almost ran into her. I started to hyperventilate.

“Okay, calm down. I need you to help me here by giving me some info about your friend,” she said and added, “Are you okay? Are you hurt, too?”

I shook my head no. I started to feel one of my seizures coming up.

Not now, God, not now.

I took a deep breath and said to the nurse, “His name is Martin Parvez; his home number is 555-6533; he’s allergic to … penicillin and some other stuff….”

I leaned on the counter.

“What’s wrong? What’s your name?” she asked me, concerned.

“He’s allergic … to several things … call his mother before you give him anyth—”

I couldn’t finish the sentence. My hands crisped and my feet bent inwards; I fell on the floor and felt the familiar volts of energy running through my body in wild, shocking waves. I shook uncontrollably for a while.

Then nothing more.