Most of the calls today were quite tame, although this number, 911, is what's called in times of need, some days a surprising amount of calls are children upset about being grounded or people complaining about their neighbors being too noisy at night, petty theft, vandalism and shoplifters. But I suppose, that was also only my line. So it came as especially shocking to get that one call. Perhaps around 5:16 P.M. though my eyes don't tend to stare at the clock, it was sometime around then. A voice so frantic, so shaky, screaming. "She's dead, she's dead" two words repeated and repeated and repeated over and over again. So much her voice grew rough and hoarse. Panic is almost like disease, it spreads. Calls like that one squeeze your heart into little splinters of pain, hate, doubt and most of all, fear. Empathy is a funny thing and a horrible thing for a heart to carry in a job like mine. I can't stress, I can't panic, I can't freak out, it'll only worry the caller even more, it could possibly even endanger them in some circumstances. So all you can do is pretend you're a calm, heartless bastard and quickly dispatch what's necessary. I traced her location through the call because she was too frantic to understand my asking and sent an ambulance to rush her way. I think what hurts the worst is the girl, she sounded so young. A poor little girl, traumatized for a lifetime now, seeing someone she loves dead. After that call, I left for my break, crammed myself into a bathroom stall and just cried. I cried in mourning for the loss of that little girls innocence, and in self pity and hatred of myself. To the other person on that line, I'm sorry for being a heartless bastard.
