Trauma

“How can I help you, sir, SIR, how can I help you? Sir are you ok? Oh god, help, somebody help! I think he’s having a heart attack. Myrtal struggles to pull her three hundred fifty pounds over the counter at the D.M.V. her floral print pant suit is bunching up around her giant calves.
The old man had claspes on the ground. His fishing hat skidds into the corner by the door disturbing dust that had not moved in months. His head bounces off of the black and white tiled floor like his neck is made out of elastic. Down, up, and down again. There is a dull thunk and a line of blood appears trickling down the old mans ear.
A line of heads is turning in unison to watch, eyes wide, mouths hanging open. A child drops a red Lego from his hand instead of placing it into his mouth.
Myrtal rolls over the top of the counter. Ripples of fat in motion move up and down her body. All she can think about is her baby. That one night when her brother in law had a little to much to drink but you couldn’t tell, every body said afterwards they couldn’t tell, they didn’t know. He was tossing her little baby up and down, her little Trina, and Trina was laughing, and oh god.
The blood is flowing out of the olds man ear and collecting in his thin white hair. The man is laying flat out on his back. His eyes are wide open.
John Hughes jumps up thinking of the women sitting three seats to his left and how he could impress her. He had noticed her as soon as he walked in, she reminded him of a coworker he had always had a crush on. He had been looking at her legs while pretending to read a Grisham novel. She is gagging. The sight of blood has always made her gag, except in vampire movies for some reason. She doesn’t care that he is jumping to help. Neither does the old man. He is dead.