"It was nobody's fault, but here I am, lying on the damp floor of a wood, half a mile from the road. Drifting down with the falling leaves are the voices of two women, too easily accepting of blame. I reassure them and try to sit up, but the high singing in my ears turns to static, the edges of the wood begin to pixelate, and I lie down again before I faint."
"Moments earlier, deep into Long Copse, Mum's one-year-old labrador and my two-year-old collie crossbreed had met a young whippet. A case of the zoomies ensued, and as I turned to warn Mum, there was a sledgehammer blow to my lower leg as one, two or maybe all three dogs cannoned into me. Though I didn't realise for two more days, my leg was broken before I hit the ground."
"A dragonfly lands on me at eye level, a smoked-glass common darter. Her cellophane wings crackle and my leg responds with searing pain. Beside me, a centipede rocks the rollercoaster of its amber body, back and forth over the curved veins of leaves. And then, high in the conifers, I hear a flock of pine-scented crossbills, chip chip chyop among trills. I could be dreaming, but I heard them here the week before."
A person lies on the damp floor of a wood, half a mile from the road, after being struck by three dogs during a sudden bout of 'zoomies.' The collision causes a sledgehammer blow to the lower leg, fracturing it before the fall. Two women and the narrator's mother attend, offering reassurance, tea and comfort while the narrator drifts in and out of consciousness. The narrator senses the woodland vividly—sycamore leaves, pine scent, a dragonfly landing and a centipede moving—experiencing moments of peace amid searing pain. The narrator refuses an ambulance despite the severity of the injury and a paramedic husband.
Read at www.theguardian.com
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