Conflict: A Beginning
It was the sound of a distant siren, gradually edging closer that pulled Stanford back into consciousness. Then, the rush of voices, gentle hand on his shoulder. He tried to blink open his eyes but they were tacky and damp. It smelt of metal. or was it blood? Was he still wearing his helmet? And what of his bike, the Viper 2000? His only thought was of the bike.
Please don’t let the Viper be damaged.
The siren died and a succession of lights filtered through the paper of his eyelids. The glow of sunlight streaming through as the bevy of concerned onlookers cleared a space around Stanford’s mangled body.
Already, the car that had hit him was being moved away. On to the shoulder of the road so that traffic could flow again. The police signalled for the backlog of cars to drive by, though they crept at snails pace. Driver’s craned their necks to see the body.
Stanford tried to move his feet, to wiggle his toes or shuffle his ankles but there was no feeling. Did he still have legs, he wondered?