Forty Minutes on the Floor

The concrete was cold.

The towel around my hand was red — too red.

I didn’t know it yet, but I’d spend forty minutes on that floor — not hurting, just scared, strangely comfortable, and drifting into every moment where I’d put this hand at risk — including the one I didn’t want to think about.

My heart pounded in my chest, catching a rhythm that matched the rock song on the radio, which was quietly playing in the background.

“Lift your head, I’ll put this under your head.” The voice was calm, comforting even.

I fought the situation; I did not want to lie down. I did not want to sit down either. I wanted to walk about in a daze- like I had been — pacing from one room to another, staring in disbe-lief at the blood spots dotted around the floor.

“You’re in shock; you need to lie down.” The voice was still calm, but more forceful now.

I gave in.

I felt relief.

My heartbeat slowed, at odds with the music. I focused on the voice above me.

“Give me your arm, you need to raise it high.” He paused, “I will hold it. My friend is on the phone for help.”

My shoulders were the first to become lighter, then my chest. My neck followed suit.

Joyful words poured out of the radio. A competition trying to match words or something. Whatever it was, the presenters thought it was funny. Oblivious to my situation.

My thoughts drifted into panic.

What if I lose too much blood?

Why is the woman, I can now hear on the phone speaker, wanting to assess the level of care needed?

Ambulance now, I screamed inside.

But I was desperate to come across calm, cool — Like you see on TV, where we are all amazed by how calm they were.

What about soldiers, with far greater wounds in horrendous conditions?

My thoughts were running away, but I could not help thinking about how useless I’d be as a soldier for some reason.

“Yes, it’s a chop saw.” I heard the other man say to the lady.

I glanced at the saw with a newfound fear.

My mind slipped, and suddenly I was somewhere else.

Blue sky. Bright sun. The Beach Boys on the radio. I set the saw down on the bench and, as always, it rocked back. That stupid wobble had annoyed me from day one. No reason for it, but it did it every time.

I hated that machine.

The first time I used it, I cut straight through the metal fence. Even when it behaved, it al-ways left a sliver of wood untouched, as if it refused to finish the job.

Still, I kept it.

Then I snapped back — but not at the right moment.

I was back, standing on the concrete floor, just moments before it happened. My eyes darted around, searching for the radio. I switched it on, and the Reservoir Dogs tune filled the room.

Foreshadowing, maybe.

I placed the saw on my makeshift bench, which rested on the concrete floor. I slid a small block of timber under the back of the machine to stop it rocking.

I plugged it in.

The timber lengths were lined up against the far wall like victims, ready to be cut through like butter. I chose the unlucky piece and set it on the plate where the blade would come down.

I brought the saw down.

A clean cut.

For an instant, I glimpsed the red towel. I tried to stay there, hold onto the present, but my mind drifted back.

The Beach Boys were still giving summer the full effect as the concrete floor turned into the brick paving where my saw bench was set up. I was about to find a block of wood to stabi-lise the rocking.

The blade… now is a good time to change it.

I was looking over the tool, blade in one hand, Allen key in the other. I removed the bolt holding the blade in; it should be simple to change.

I undid the wrong bolt.

A spring, a screw. Parts that held the blade in place fell to the floor.

I scooped them up and spent a few moments working out what went where.

Think… did I put it back right?

Did the saw work okay after?

Or was I just lucky the rest of the day?

I needed to know.

I needed to know if the reason I was lying on a cold concrete floor, holding a towel over a deep cut through the top of my hand, was my fault, one that was going to cost me dearly.

I stared at the towel, hoping blood was not coming through. Coldness was creeping into me from the cold floor. The voice spoke to me.

“We need to remove the towel; the operator wants to see it.”

My heartbeat kicked up again.

I didn’t want to let go. I wanted to hold my hand tight against the warm fibres, keep it cov-ered, keep it safe. Releasing it felt like stripping down in front of strangers, naked, exposed, vulnerable.

I held on tighter as the voice tried to ease it away.

“It’s okay,” he said. “The operator just needs a look. We’ll cover it straight back up.”

I let go, reluctantly.

A rush of cold air hit the wound. Then the stinging. I gritted my teeth. Tapped my foot. Tried to be brave, but bravery had left.

The voices on the phone blurred into nothing. Then the warmth returned as the towel came back, and the stinging drifted off.

“How bad is it?” I whispered. “Be honest. I need to know.”

“It’s deep,” he said. “We can see tendons that may have been cut. But it’s not bleeding, that’s good. The ambulance is on the way.”

Something in me slipped again — further this time.

I was young. I couldn’t see myself, but I could see the park, the frame — the monkey bars, a horizontal ladder at an adult’s head height. I only remember my mum shaking my hand.

“Looks okay to me.”

My next memory is staring at a cast.

I’d broken my wrist.

The coldness creeping up from the concrete floor pulls me back.

Looking back, I should have asked someone for a blanket. Forty minutes until the ambu-lance. I want to be done.

I make a call.

“Are you sitting down? I’ve cut my hand — it’s bad… I’m sorry.”

The call fades.

The cold concrete fades.

Parquet flooring appears instead — the sports hall, echoing, stale with that rubbery smell. Classmates line up behind me, some in borrowed oversized shorts, shifting nervously. I turn my head.

Tunnel vision sprints toward the only object in the room, the pommel horse.

I run up to it.

I still don’t know why I dived over it.

I stare at my bent left wrist, disbelieving, like I’m watching someone else. My classmate’s face is as white as a sheet.

I don’t remember pain in the ambulance. The medic is making me laugh. My mum is cry-ing.

Laughter breaks me from the memory.

Whatever the punchline was on the radio, I missed it.

“I’m gonna keep an eye out for the ambulance,” he says.

He wasn’t holding my arm anymore. He must be relieved.

The bleeding hadn’t been as bad as the operator expected, all thanks to the man I now looked at with a mix of respect and relief. I felt stupid beside him. I was a man with no first-aid knowledge who had been pacing the floor in shock, trying to clear blood with my shoes.

Keep the pressure on it… that was all I knew.

My heart raced again.

What about my tools?

My van?

How was any of this getting sorted?

Wonderwall was playing now. I hadn’t heard it in years. It drifted away, and the cold room faded.

I was standing in front of a ladder, paint roller in hand. I was just about to pull the bottom rung of the ladder to a better angle, when the phone rang.

“What time are you getting to the pub?”

I can’t remember the response. I just know I was eager to finish up and leave. I climbed to the top of the ladder and dipped the roller into the paint pot clipped to the side. I Started rolling the wall.

It was the sound that did it — the ladder scraping along the path.

My heart jumped. My eyes widened.

People say time slows down in moments like that. They’re right. The fall was quick, but somehow I had time to think: don’t land on your head.

I twisted mid air, trying to save myself. It didn’t save my wrist. Smashed, bent, useless.

Reservoir Dogs plays louder now, someone turned the radio up- perhaps it was the man.

I’m back at the saw.

I gently pull the handle upwards; the blade has left two bits of wood.

The guard should come down.

It hasn’t.

I pull my hand up from under the blade, holding the cut piece of wood.

A sharp pain.

A shout.

Blood.