A terrorist attack takes place in Canada during the widely loved politician's wedding. The horrible incident leaves hundreds of people dead, but the politician's son survives. Luckily, he meets a gorgeous med student in the hospital of who he just...
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june 28th toronto
SOME OF US ALMOST TWENTY-ISH GALS FELT UTTERLY COMFORTABLE holding a tepid beer – with a sparkle of GHB – while dancing the night away in the sweaty club around the corner every Friday night strict. I, in total minority, preferred spending nights in the hospital ever since the little me had decided to develop an undying affection for newborns as well as people being cured from their illness, and family and friends offering devotion and compassion for those who got injured. My mother was the best doctor walking and operating around in the hospital, therefore she had always wanted me to be there, and I even became a med student after high school. The older I got, the more I wanted to snap out of the path to the future that was in front of me, but becoming a doctor was the only thing I had a talent for – it was the only thing I was good at besides avoiding any event that included social interaction ever. No way you'd find me having an elaborate conversation with the cashier about how my day had been, in fact, I absolutely despised those creatures. No, Karen, no one wants to know that those nuts are only for you, because your husband is allergic to them.
Sipping a cold beer without a sparkle of GHB, I watched the live-streamed emission of Canada's best politician's wedding; Sean Feingold. It was held in the Scarborough Bluffs park in Toronto, one of the most beautiful places around here, and so incredibly beautiful decorated and organized that I wanted to get married the day after. Feingold's second marriage with Mark Campbell was public, and as much as I wanted to go out to see it live, I didn't feel like changing my sweatpants for an uncomfortable, air-depriving dress with, not to mention, the sort of heels I'd break both my ankles in. I re-sat myself on my mother's couch and downed the beer, making space for my dog Dart Vader which was prohibited to be on the couch. The rebel life is simply something that chooses you.
Suddenly, there was a loud thud to be heard from the television, followed by a shaking camera. Within seconds, shocking images of the place being blown up, bodies flying through the air, limbs roughly getting torn off were to be seen, and my throat got so dry that even air felt coarse against my trachea. My first instinct was to fetch my phone and ring my mother, but she didn't pick up. The camera had died and all what was to see, was a nebulous static, leaving us all with undeciphered questions floating through our minds about what the hell had happened next. The images of the explosion continuously played like a rewound film in my head, causing a manifest nausea to whirl through all of my intestines. My body obliged myself to head to the hospital as fast as possible and grant help as much as I could've.
Everything was shut off as soon as I drove to the hospital, mind and body not seeming to co-operate. Red light, green light, go. My mind had dozed off to a place where all poor victims of the bombing were, while unwittingly listening to the man talking about the incident over the radio. Don't drive to fast, not too slow either. What felt like fifteen minutes were actually five until my arrival at the hospital, and I ran inside. Paramedics and severely injured people all covered in blood and dirt were already rushing through the hallways.
