MONO ISSUE 1 PDF FLIPBOOK - Flipbook - Page 9
No surgeon could possibly repair the extensive damage to your spine. Your stomach heaves and for
a moment you think you too might vomit as the future flashes before your eyes...a quadriplegic
languishing away in some managed-care facility, unable to communicate, at the mercy of any and
everybody else. No control whatsoever over any aspect of your life. Your mind rebels against the
image; a metal trap door clangs shut, sealing in the appalled, terrified feelings.
"She's lost a lot of blood," someone murmurs. That's another funny thing. You haven't noticed all
the blood seeping from your battered body, flowing and draining in a relentless tide. But now
you're aware that some of the crowd have stepped in your blood; a trail of bloody footprints leads
off in several directions. You think of the fairy-tale children, Hansel and Gretel. They would have
been smarter to leave a trail of blood instead of breadcrumbs to lead them home.
The doctor kneels beside you and takes your bloodied, broken hand. He presses a finger against
the side of your neck. You see him do these things, but you can't feel any of it. Grim-lipped, he turns
away. "I'm afraid she's gone," he says to the onlookers. "No use in attempting CPR; her injuries are
obviously too extensive. There's nothing we can do now but wait for the ambulance." He shakes his
head and sighs. "What a waste." He removes his jacket and gently covers the smashed remains of
your face.
Darkness descends as the jacket veils your eyes. Wait a minute, you cry in your head, unable to
articulate the slightest sound. Gone! Does that idiot think you're dead? Some doctor! He couldn't
even find your pulse. And now with this ridiculous jacket draped across your head you can't even
see anymore. If only you had movement enough to toss your head and throw off this mock-shroud.
An ambulance wail pierces the air, getting closer with each second. It is a mournful cry, sounding
like a creature on the brink of extinction. The siren screech halts abruptly and you hear new voices,
doors sliding open, the clatter of stretcher wheels hitting the pavement.
"This way," a voice instructs. You recognise it as belonging to the idiot doctor, the one who thinks
you're dead. "You've got a DOA here," he adds as the paramedics approach. "I'd say so," one of
them agrees, his voice hovering close to your head. "Skull smashed in several places, catastrophic
internal damage. Definitely an unsurvivable fall."
The other EMT, his voice gruff, is more graphic. "Yeah. Looks like a squashed pumpkin to me. You
know these jumpers always amaze me. What drives somebody to do themselves in like that? I
mean, you can take pills or hang yourself. Hell, even a gunshot wound isn't as messy. But this!
Blood, guts, brain and bone splattered everywhere. Disturbing all these people as they go about
their day. What if some kid saw this? Goddamn losers should have the decency to off themselves in
the privacy of their own homes."
The first paramedic speaks, his voice tinged with sadness. "I wonder what makes them do it?
Pity-this one looks kind of young, too."
"Ahh-probably on drugs," the gruff one responds. "Come on. Let's scoop her up. I swear, some
days I feel like a goddamn trashman."
The men lift your body onto the stretcher. You still feel nothing, even though they're trying to fit
pieces of you together, like a macabre jigsaw puzzle. Now you hear the sound of the body bag being
zipped closed. The stretcher slides smoothly into the back of the vehicle and the doors slam shut.
Just wait till you get to the hospital. Somebody there is bound to realise this monumental screw-up.
A few moments later the ambulance pulls away from the curb, its siren ominously silent. You still
can't believe it. The paramedics have sided with the idiot doctor. What's the matter with these
people? Can't they feel a pulse? Don't they see your open eyes tracking their every move. A chilling
thought occurs to you. What if they try to pull a "Premature Burial" on you? Admittedly, you're a big
fan of Edgar Allan Poe, but you don't fancy the idea of being thrown down a hole in a pine box
barely large enough to contain your shattered remains. You try desperately to remember whether
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