Single Yellow Rose

Connie High

Description

A Single Yellow Rose is a drama revealing the hardship of a troubled, young woman suffering from the results of childhood abuse. As a result of a horrible tragedy, Emma's emotional stability is destroyed and she plummets into the past where she confronts love, heartache and violence. Adventures are thrilling and characters are unique and heartwarming.

Sujets

• Adventure (Guyana)
• Historical romance
• Historical fiction
• Adventure
• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: First Edition Design Publishing
• Date de parution: 15 décembre 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781622877089
• Langue: English

Extrait

A Single Yellow Rose
Connie High


First Edition Design Publishing
A Single Yellow Rose

First Edition Design Publishing
A Single Yellow Rose
Copyright ©2014 Connie High

ISBN 978-1622-877-07-2 HC PRINT
ISBN 978-1622-877-06-5 PRINT
ISBN 978-1622-877-08-9 EBOOK

LCCN 2014950592

October 2014

Published and Distributed by
First Edition Design Publishing, Inc.
P.O. Box 20217, Sarasota, FL 34276-3217
www.firsteditiondesignpublishing.com



ALL R I G H T S R E S E R V E D. No p a r t o f t h i s b oo k pub li ca t i o n m a y b e r e p r o du ce d, s t o r e d i n a r e t r i e v a l s y s t e m , o r t r a n s mit t e d i n a ny f o r m o r by a ny m e a ns ─ e l e c t r o n i c , m e c h a n i c a l , p h o t o - c o p y , r ec o r d i n g, or a ny o t h e r ─ e x ce pt b r i e f qu ot a t i o n i n r e v i e w s , w i t h o ut t h e p r i o r p e r mi ss i on o f t h e a u t h o r or publisher .
A Single Yellow Rose
Written by
Connie High
Chapter One

"911 emergency," the disgruntled trainee answered quickly, snatching up his headset mere moments after stumbling into his tiny cubicle. His normally crisp shirt was crumpled and smelled of cheap bourbon. His trousers, always creased to perfection, were secured with a frayed cord tied in a bow at the front as the button dangled from only a few threads.
As he grabbed for that first call, he reached clumsily for the switch connecting him to the never ending influx of pleas for rescue, accidentally tipping over his favorite beverage. The aroma roused his taste buds as a gratifying smell filled the air. He had craved the first slurp of the mouth-watering concoction since purchasing the oversized addiction ten minutes earlier from a cafe located just next door.
This particular evening he deliberately chose the longest line in the yuppie establishment so that the fragrant deliciousness might be mixed, per his specific instructions, by a big butted girl he'd been wanting to hump for several months now. His vision blurred and his hands trembled from a lack of sleep and too many frozen margaritas, both contributing to his professional temperament falling short of his intended goal.
The frustrated apprentice had arrived late for the night shift, hung over from an unprecedented weekend of party-hopping with cheap whores and lonesome men, the majority of whom he would not recognize at this particular time. On the other end of the line, a frantic caller remained silent, too terrified to speak for fear his location might be discovered by a lunatic raging nearby.
"Okay, wise guy. One more chance is all you're gonna get. I already said 911 emergency, so whoever this is, you better not be pranking me," the operator sputtered rudely as he swigged down a gulp of thick pink liquid straight from the bottle, attempting to fend off an oncoming sensation of nausea. An abnormal aggression reflected in his voice as sickness welled into his throat, and his nerves unraveled from the shrillness of ringing phones.
The horrified caller, with both hands trembling, grappled for control of his new cell. Whispering nervously, a normally confident voice faltered as he attempted to relay the devastating report.
"911. Now listen to me. This is going to be a short and one time only conversation. I'm in trouble here. We got a bad time going on. There's been a shooting here at Saint Mary's hospital and—man—we need some help. We need some help, and we need it bad, just as fast as you can possibly get it here."
"Sir, listen to me carefully. I want you to try to calm down. Calm down for me, and try to speak up. I'm here to help you, but I can't do anything if I can't hear you. Just give me your name and location. Then tell me exactly what's happening there."
"I'm at Saint Mary's. Wait ... hold on just one minute," the distraught caller requested unexpectedly. "Just give me one second, and I'll be right back to you. I need to check if anyone saw me run. I'm in the storage closet."
Despite a disturbing commotion resonating from around the nearest corner, the door eased open, and, cautiously, the plump maintenance engineer—as he liked to be called—exited through as narrow a gap as possible for his size, then quickly paced back and forth down the noisy hallway.
Passing a nearby medical cart, he scrambled about for any item that even vaguely resembled a weapon of self-defense, sending rolls of tape and packaged bandages flying through the air. Focusing on the shrieks and screams echoing from around the corner, the panicked worker selected a large pair of scissors, reentered his haven, and, once again, began to report the disturbing events to his phone partner.
"One of our doctors has been shot. He's been shot bad, right in the head. Please, you need to get your guys here quick as you can.
“Man, you just don't know . It's terrible—terrible. This doctor's been hurt bad. Blood was squirting everywhere, and we got a maniac still roaming round here with a gun," his breathy voice quieted as background noise seemed to be moving closer toward his hiding spot.
"Hold on. Hold on a minute. I think the shooter's coming."
"Mister, hey mister, come on now. Stay with me. Take a deep breath for me, a deeeep breath, and try to calm yourself, please. Calm on down now. Don't hang up. Right now, I can barely hear you. First off, give me your name."
"My name's Ethan. Ethan Butler, that's my name. Can you hear me?” the young man whispered, relocating his phone into a better position. Again, he eased open the door. Just as he feared, at that precise moment, his worst nightmare charged around the corner.
"Yep, he's close all right. Right over by the water cooler. He's right there."
Flaunting a long barreled pistol above his head, the wild-eyed aggressor waved his weapon toward a group of stunned onlookers huddled together nearby. Terrified visitors and hospital staff crouched along his pathway, shielding their heads with trembling hands.
"Yes Ethan, I hear you now, loud and clear. Thank you. Give me your exact location," responded the now alert operator, adjusting his headset and straightening his back to position himself higher in his rickety chair.
"Damn, man. It's the St. Mary's Hospital. I told you that. We're in the psychiatric unit. It's on Washington Boulevard, for Pete's sake. Come to the southeast entrance. It's the only St. Mary's in the whole city. There's a raving—. ”
Again, the faceless voice silenced. Without hesitation, Ethan exited his tiny sanctuary, quickly darting for cover behind a gray felt partition that separated rows of linked seating, normally occupied this time of evening by friends and family visiting loved ones.
A few agonizing moments later, the familiar voice exploded back on the line. "Damn man, he's close, really close. He damn nearly saw me. I got to keep moving around. Don't talk too loud. You hear me? I don't want to get my ass shot off."
"Ethan, who? Who's back? Talk to me, buddy. I need you to talk to me right now. Where exactly are you right now?"
"I'm still in the south building unit. It's the first floor. Man, the hell with where I am. Get somebody rolling, fool. Help us!"
"We're coming to you. We're on the way right now. An ambulance was dispatched the very moment you gave me your location. As we speak, they're moving. Please, just try to stay calm, and, no matter what goes down there, hold the line. I need you to stay with me. Stay with me till they arrive."
"Mister, are you some kind of freaking idiot? We already have damn ambulances, you nut case. This is a hospital for pity's sake," Ethan reprimanded, continuing to crouch behind the screen, seeking refuge from the chaos, his arthritic knees aching without mercy.
"Hey, by the way, what's your name, fool?"
"The name's Ken. Just call me Ken."
"Well then, Ken," replied Ethan, his voice instinctively stoic. "We need somebody right now with a badge and a gun. There's a half-naked lunatic right down the hall no more than twenty or thirty feet away from me, turning round and round in circles, cussing at everybody. He’s waving some kind of old pistol at everyone he passes, and, believe me, it's a freaking big gun. He's got a weird tattoo of a big snake down the full length of his upper body. He is ugly as hell, no shirt on or nothing. Now, Ken, send us some help, a bunch of tough sons of bitches, or, when this is finally over, I'm coming over there to kick your ass."
"Sir, I mean Ethan, please settle down. I promise you they're on the way. If you want to survive this, try to keep your wits about you. All our units are deployed together: fire, police, ambulances—all of them together. For now, I want you to find a safe place, and simply continue to hold. Do not attempt to intervene."
"You don't have to worry none about that, man. I'm moving again." Ethan, for his own self-protection, cautiously maneuvered several yards further to the right, darting into the first open door. Clumsily, he collapsed behind the nearest desk to wait out the nerve wracking ordeal, massaging his painful knees and calves, attempting to initiate proper blood flow.
“I’m back.”
"Good deal, Ethan. Let's sit this one out together."
Nurses and agitated patients peeked from the doors of solitary rooms, whispering amongst themselves. A number of them expressed concern for Emma, the wounded physician's wife, and were desperate to rush to her side. Her slim body was pressed tightly against the corridor wall, her eyes were wide with hysteria, and her face was covered in blood.
Nauseating debris remained spattered across her captivating face, now contorted by fear and trauma, and her lean extremities trembled from the hysteria and shock of witnessing such a horrific act.
Moments earlier, a trusted friend attempted to help cleanse away the clinging droplets, but Peyton's traumatized spouse rejected her kind spirit, violently shoving the bewildered acquaintance from her personal s