MONO ISSUE 1 PDF FLIPBOOK - Flipbook - Page 8
IMPACT
by Gina Easton
YOU WAIT FOR the moment of impact. Your muscles tighten involuntarily, your body's natural,
desperate reaction to save itself. You've thought often of what it will be like; a second's span of
awareness, perhaps of pain, before your consciousness is lost forever. But when the moment
arrives you feel nothing, really. You're aware you've hit the ground; your ears have registered the
crash of your fragile body against the pavement. Your vision blurs briefly as the world swims and
shimmers before your eyes. Then everything is brought sharply into focus, as the snapshot that is
the world takes on shape, colour and texture once more.
You can see. You can hear. The sound of running feet echoes loudly in your head. Cries and
shouts of alarm issue from every corner of the street as people pour onto the pavement. Like
figures made of lava they encroach slowly upon your space, inching forward. Necks craning for a
better view, afraid to get too close, afraid to really see the distorted form, the perfect china doll,
now shattered and splattered into mangled fragments.
You see. You hear. But you can't move. You fight a rising tide of panic and despair as you realise
that your spinal cord must have been severed, leaving you totally paralysed. Aware, but unable to
communicate, for even your vocal chords are gone. But how can that be? How can you have
survived an eleven-storey fall, let alone remain conscious? You should be dead. You hadn't counted
on surviving.
A middle-aged woman stumbles forward. It seems that she has reluctantly found herself in the
forefront of the crowd. You can tell by the woman's awkward gestures that she doesn't really want
to look down at your smashed body, yet she struggles with the morbid fascination that has her in its
thrall. She doesn't want to look; she'll have nightmares for months to come, but she can't force
herself to look away either.
Finally, she musters up enough courage for a quick glance that starts at your feet and travels up
your broken, twisted body. Your eyes lock onto hers and you see them widen, first in shock, then
horror, then dawning awareness followed by revulsion. She's close enough for you to see the blueand-red flowers in the white kerchief on her head. With a strangled gasp and moan she turns away
and vomits on the side of the street. The acrid, nauseating stench of bile fills your nostrils. You
would wrinkle your nose if you could, but of course that's impossible. Out of the corner of your eye
you see the vomit lying in a hot little pool, an iridescent sliminess--pity--green's always been one of
your favourite colours. A man gesticulates, pointing at the woman and then at the puddle of vomit.
He wears an apron and is quite upset. He seems to be saying something, but in the rising din you
can't hear him.
You recognise him as Mr. DeMarcos, owner of the fruit and vegetable store in front of which your
body sprawls. You realise he's upset because some of the woman's vomit has splashed onto his
fruit and vegetable displays. You know that even if he succeeds in wiping the produce clean, he'll
have to sell it at a reduced price.
Funny. You don't feel pain, but that's because your spinal cord has been pulverised. Well, that's
one thing to be grateful for, you think dubiously. You may be nothing but a grotesque rag-doll now,
a useless collection of splintered bone and crushed nerves, but at least you're not in pain. Another
man pushes his way through the crowd. He wears an air of authority, an earnest, intense
expression on his face. "Let me through, I'm a doctor," he says to the people milling about. You
mentally roll your eyes (since you can't do the real thing). What good will a doctor do at this stage?
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