Phoenix
by Dale J. Sprague
Flash Fiction
The Cut
Diego, who is seven, rushed his sister, Lucy, into my apartment for emergency treatment. She was crying and holding her finger. Diego said, "She cut her finger. Please fix it for her." I repositioned my desk lamp so we all could see the cut. We all looked at it. We peered gravely into it.
I pulled out my first'aid box and looked into her eyes, and I said, "This won't hurt." I sprayed the cut with a disinfectant and topical analgesic. She stopped crying. I dried the finger where the band'aid needs to stick, and applied the band'aid, and some tape around it all to keep it dry.
Both were watching intently. Her eyes were dry. Serious looking face. Successful operation. Definite cut..disinfect..she held her injured finger steady more than the others, and held it tight as I positioned it. Attention given. We all saw the cut. A serious insult. "Keep it dry," I said, "for a day."
The cut was no more than what a slight paper cut might be, but such an injury to a tender child of three years is nigh onto a serious knife wound of an adult requiring lidocaine and sutures.
She left with her brother, Diego. Bandaged finger, no pain. They both left abruptly. I said, "Good'bye." They said nothing. Serious demeanor. Diego with his arm around his sister, opened and closed the door. And they were gone.