Story: Biance

note: i hate creepy dreams during nap time.
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Her name was Bianca. She was thirteen.

She only spoke French. No one spoke French. Some guy brought her here after she'd been hit by a cab.

I realized, after the third hour, that there was nothing to be done. I offered her tea. She was crying a lot.

I didn't remember being thirteen.

"It hurts," she said, and my mind flickered, confused.

"It'll stop soon," I replied, pulling my knees to my chest. I was nineteen, then. I'd been a medic for eleven months. No one had died before.

I thought of offering her painkillers, but didn't.

"How do you speak French?" she asked.

"I speak everything."

"I wish I could do that."

"It's not really worth it," I said, staring at the dark red stains beneath my fingernails. The funny thing about words is that they will evaporate in six hours and forty nine minutes. After that, she'll speak the same language as everyone else.

"Can I go home now?"

"You probably shouldn't walk," I said. She weighed ninety three pounds. I wondered if I could carry her body to the alley.