They hauled in the school bomber last night.
Bloody and torn, barely recognizable as human.
“Fifteen minutes,” said the medic. “Twenty tops.”
The nurse whispers into the dying man’s ear.
“I’m with the Red Crescent. You’re not dying. Tell me who to warn off the attack.”
A head full of morphine, he mumbles names, places.
The nurse smiles, and injects the morphine blocker.
A moan, then screaming.
She lights the blowtorch, and slowly sears every inch of his skin.
Years later, she’ll take out a lighter, and singe the hair on her wrist.
The smell brings back such good memories.