written by: E C McLeod
Tears, squeezed hands, clutched chests and last gasps; I collect them all.
A mum, days dead. A waterfall of dried blood stains her shoulder. A card that reads “Our love this Christmas without your husband.”
A baby, battling infection. Giggling, wriggling, until he wasn’t. Stethoscope to chest, takes my breath until I hear his. Diminished, but there.
A partner, pleading her to admit. He witnessed her take them, we witnessed her collapse. Arguing, denying and swearing replaced by a tube and an oxygen mask.
A grandma, ribs snapping. Relatives cry, she was only discharged this morning.
A paramedic, haunted.
E C McLeod
A paramedic in London trying to navigate their minefield of emotions through writing. McLeod is nocturnal unless life imposes a normal circadian rhythm. When awake, she enjoys disappearing into a romance novel, particularly a contemporary or a paranormal romance. She is currently doing anything to procrastinate in order to avoid writing the second half of her contemporary romance novel.
Latest posts by E C McLeod (see all)
- Avid Collector - February 5, 2023