The One Who Fell
I see her start to fall, but no matter how fast I try to move, I’m never going to close the distance quickly enough. My feet pound the pavement as I rush towards the elderly woman, but it’s like running through treacle. Time slows, stretches, and becomes elastic while I push against it.
The impact is awful. A wet thud as her head meets the road. The sound turns my stomach.
I’m still running, breath ragged in my chest, when I realise someone’s already there. A young woman in scrubs beneath her coat has dropped to her knees beside the fallen figure. Her voice is calm, her hands moving with practised focus as she assesses the situation.
“Call an ambulance,” she says, not looking up. Her fingers are at the old woman’s neck, checking for a pulse.
I fumble for my mobile, hands shaking as I dial 999. The operator’s voice seems distant, tinny. I give our location in a rush of words, watching as the young woman in scrubs carefully turns the elderly lady onto her side.
“It’s alright, love,” she murmurs, though I’m not sure if she’s speaking to me or to her patient. “We’ve got you. Help’s on the way.”
I move closer, unsure how to help. The old woman’s eyes flutter open, unfocused. A trickle of blood runs from her temple.
“What’s your name?” the young woman asks gently.
“Martha,” comes the faint reply.
I kneel beside them, my heart still racing. Martha’s breathing is shallow, her eyes unfocused.
“Hello Martha, my name is Jemima, and I’m a nurse. Try to stay awake, there’s an ambulance coming, She looks up, scanning the gathering people looking for confirmation.
“On their way”, I respond while trying to sound calm and soothing for Martha’s sake.
Jemima cradles the elderly woman’s head gently, her touch sure and steady.
“Can you hear us, Martha?” Jemima asks softly. A faint groan escapes Martha’s lips, her eyelids fluttering.
“She’s with us,” Jemima says, exhaling. It’s not quite relief, but the beginning of it.
I notice Martha’s handbag has spilled open on the pavement. Carefully, I gather its scattered contents: a glasses case, a worn leather purse, a neatly folded shopping list. My hands tremble slightly as I pick up each item.
I hold out the glasses case to Jemima, but she’s focused intently on Martha. After a moment’s hesitation, I slip it back into Martha’s handbag without thinking.
As we wait for the ambulance, I find myself noticing small details. Jemima’s shoelace is untied, the laces trailing on the damp pavement. Her hands, so steady and sure in their movements, are blotched red from the cold. I want to offer her my gloves, but it seems trivial in the face of Martha’s condition.
“Stay with us, Martha,” Jemima murmurs, her voice a lifeline in the tense silence.
I shrug off my jacket, folding it with trembling hands. Jemima gently lifts Martha’s head, and I slide the makeshift pillow beneath it. Our fingers brush as we settle her, and I feel the warmth of Jemima’s skin against mine.
“Talk to her,” Jemima says softly. “Just keep her aware.”
I clear my throat, suddenly unsure what to say. “Hello Martha. I’m Adrian. I, uh, I run the newsagent’s just down the road. You might have been in — we’ve got those nice lavender soaps you like.”
Martha’s eyes flutter, and I see the faintest twitch of a smile. Her hand moves slightly, curling towards mine. I take it, her skin paper-thin and cool against my palm.
For a moment, there’s quiet. I look at Jemima — really look at her for the first time. The circles under her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands. She’s exhausted, and not just from her shift. This weighs on her.
“She reminds me of my nan,” Jemima whispers, almost to herself.
I notice movement across the street. Someone’s got their phone out, filming. Without thinking, I stand, positioning myself to block their view. Jemima glances up, sees what I’m doing. She nods, a look of gratitude and something else — understanding, maybe — passing between us.
The sirens draw closer, their wail piercing through the grey afternoon. My eyes drift to Jemima’s hands as she adjusts Martha’s coat with the careful precision of someone who understands the dignity in small gestures. The handbag grows heavier in my grip, each item inside now carrying the weight of a life hovering on tehe edgeof existance.
“Tell — “ Martha’s voice comes as faint as a breath against glass. We both lean closer, the feint and breathy sound of her voice has lost most of what little force there was.
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I watch Jemima’s face tighten as she checks Martha’s pupils. Her voice stays level and professional. “Stay with us, Martha.” But I catch the slight tremor in her fingers.
The air changes. Thickens. Martha’s hand loosens its meagre grip between my palms. Jemima moves with swift grace, checking for signs I already sense won’t be there. Her ear hovers near Martha’s lips, waiting for breath that doesn’t come.
Time stretches like cold honey. Then:
“She’s gone.”
My hand remains wrapped around Martha’s cooling fingers. I can’t let go. Not yet. Beside me, Jemima reaches out, her touch impossibly gentle as she closes Martha’s eyes. The tenderness of it squeezes something in my chest until I can barely breathe.
The ambulance screams around the corner, blue lights painting our faces. Its arrival feels like a question asked too late.
The paramedics arrive in a flurry of activity, their voices crisp and professional. Jemima steps back, her hands falling to her sides as she watches them take over. When they ask for details, her voice is steady, clinical. Only once does it waver, a tiny crack as she mentions Martha’s name.
One of the medics passes Martha’s handbag back to me without thinking. Before I can take it, Jemima intercepts, her fingers curling around the worn leather strap. She opens the flap and retrieves the glasses case, holding it for a moment too long. Her thumb traces the worn edges before she tucks it into her pocket.
After they’ve gone, taking Martha with them, Jemima sinks down onto the kerb. Her shoulders hunch forward, arms wrapped tightly around herself. I crouch beside her, close enough that she could reach out if she wanted to, but not quite touching. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words.
Suddenly, Jemima’s hands come up to cover her face. They linger there for a heartbeat, then drop away. And then, so slowly I almost miss it, she leans forward. Her forehead comes to rest against my chest, not collapsing, just… leaning.
My arm lifts of its own accord, hovering uncertainly before settling lightly around her shoulders. She doesn’t move away. Just stays there, breathing. I can feel the warmth of each exhale through my shirt.
“It’s the second time this week,” she whispers, so quietly I almost miss it.
I don’t ask. I don’t need to. Something shifts inside me, a feeling I can’t quite name. Not sympathy, but… longing. I need to shield her from this weight, to stay here with her until the world rights itself again.
Jemima stands, her movements slow and deliberate. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of mascara on her cheek. I resist the urge to brush it away.
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the glasses case, holding it out to me. “You should give this to her family,” she says softly.
I blink, surprised. “Why me?”
Her eyes meet mine, a flicker of something vulnerable passing through them. “You were gentler with her than I was.”
I want to protest, to tell her how steady and kind she’d been. But the words catch in my throat.
As she passes the case to me, our fingers brush. It’s the lightest of touches, but I feel it like an electric current running through my skin. I don’t say anything. I just close my hand around the case, feeling its weight, the slight give of the worn leather.
We stand there for a moment, neither of us speaking. No names are exchanged, no numbers, no promises, and no details. But as I look at her, I know something has passed between us. Something fragile and unspoken, born in this shared moment of loss and connection.
***
The bell above the door chimes, but I don’t look up. Not yet. My eyes remain fixed on the worn leather of the glasses case, sitting untouched beside the till. I’ve barely moved it since yesterday, when Jemima pressed it into my hands.
I should open it. Should look for some identification, a way to contact Martha’s family. But I can’t bring myself to breach that final barrier of privacy.
My sandwich sits neglected on its paper wrapping, appetite lost somewhere between here and the memory of Martha’s last breath. The shop feels hollow today, each familiar corner now a reminder of what’s missing. Of who’s missing.
The customer clears their throat politely. I startle, forcing a smile as I ring up their newspaper and packet of mints. But my gaze keeps drifting back to the case.
I tell myself I’m being practical. That Jemima might come back, might need it as evidence or want to return it herself. But the truth sits heavy in my chest — I’m clinging to this tangible piece of connection. To the moment we shared over Martha’s still form. To the weight of Jemima’s forehead against my chest.
I let myself imagine she’ll walk through that door. That she’ll ask for the case, and our hands will brush again as I pass it to her. That we’ll find words for the thing that passed between us on that grey afternoon.
But for now, the case remains. A quiet sentinel. A thread of possibility I’m not ready to cut.
Tender flash fiction. Held in a breath. Lived in moments.
— One Long Breath… Held
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