Phylaxis

Enjoy short stories by Mace Styx.

So it was with a great wave of relief that we approached the scene and found blue flashing lights already throwing their ominous glow on the road when we arrived. Somewhere to the left of where the ambulance was parked, two paramedics were hunched over a figure that had been covered with several of those tinfoil like sheets stopping people from going into shock as a result of exposure to the cold. I remember seeing that small silver mass, a hunched lump like a giant jacket potato and seeing from the bottom left of the mass one perfectly formed female foot. Complete with painted blue toenails and pale ivory skin, protruding from the bottom. It rested, limp against the tarmac as the paramedics, leaning over the mass, spoke in that slow, over pronounced shout that they always use when trying to reassure someone who has been the victim of an accident.

“You just stay there love, we’ll get you onto the trolley soon enough and then we can have a look at you and the baby. okay? You just keep squeezing my hand and hang in there okay?” one of the paramedics boomed, his large hairy hand engulfing the poor woman’s as he spoke. No answer came from the mass, but I thought I saw the tiny hand clasped within his squeeze a little tighter.

© 2022 Mace Styx (Hljóðbók): 9798822602199

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Hljóðbók: 6 oktober 2022