Mud. An eternity of mud.
Mud and … softer mud? Something else. A forgotten thing. What?
Beyond the screaming pressure that blocks and baffles thought, out there where the blind hand gropes, sweet open air and free movement and … shapes?
Meaningless shapes. Something round? Something cold? But thought is fading. There’s nothing …
… only one last soft sweet impression, warm and fleeting, and as the mind slides down into cold pain and silence it takes with it a savour of love and hope.
“Boy? Here boy! Good boy – whatisit? Whatisit boy?”
“Pull him off.”
“Here’s a good boy.”
“Pull him off. No. No pulse.”
“Nothing? (There’s a good boy).”
“Keep him still a moment … No. Nothing on the phones, either. Tag it.”
“Offff you go boy!”
“Find us a live one this time.”
Miranda has tempted me back with her Mid-Week Flash Challenge. I knew I’d find a tale for her in the end. I didn’t expect it would be quite so bleak.