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Rated: 18+ · Fiction · Holiday · #2266857
Prompt is bolded, word count 500
You've Got Mail

Yvonne was checking the email on her phone when the bus hit her. The next thing she knew she was in an ambulance speeding to a trauma unit, her phone still clutched in one bloodied hand.
“What happened?” she whispered.
“You stepped in front of a bus, you’re lucky to be alive!” a male voice said to her right.
She tried to turn her head and couldn’t since she was in a cervical collar.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked anxiously.
“Good Shepherd Trauma Center,” was the reply.
“I have to call…”
“I’ll take that off you for now, you’re in no shape to call anybody!”
“Stay still and quiet, we’re almost there,” the EMT replied as the ambulance cut its siren to pull into the bay of the hospital.
Yvonne must have passed out, because the next thing she knew she was being rushed to surgery. After that, things became very strange. She was looking down at herself while people rushed around with equipment.
“Am I dead?” she wondered.
A tunnel of bright light drew her in. Yvonne found herself in a waiting room. She looked around to see many others in chairs around her. An elderly lady with snow-white hair, set aside her knitting to come over to her.
“Well my dear, what is your name?” she asked softly while pulling a pencil out of her bun. Yvonne saw a date book appear before her floating in the air.
“Yvonne Ireland,” she replied, without thinking.
“I’m Tilly Anne, I monitor this waiting room. Let see see….” the woman murmured.
“Oh dear! You’re not supposed to be here! You really must go back!”
“Back? Back where?” Yvonne said in bewilderment.
“Why back to the operating room! You are before your time, you see. Everyone has a time when they are designated to arrive here. You’re many years too early!”
Tilly Anne threw a soft, knitted shawl over her head. When she awoke again, she was in a room. Her leg and arm were in traction and she had a splitting headache. A familiar male voice was saying:
“You’re a lucky one, miss. I hear you died on the operating table and they had a hard time reviving you.”
Yvonne looked up at a smiling redhead wearing an EMT uniform with a name tag that read ‘Fallon O’Toole’. She tried to smile and thank him, but it made her head pound more. He told her to lay still if she wanted the concussion headache to subside.
So she did, but kept staring at the handsome man with the Irish name. He sat in the chair beside her bed and chatted softly about nothing. The lilt in his voice kept her spell-bound.
“My buddies say I must be descended from leprechauns, because I’m short. I just ignore them, what do they know, anyway!” Fallon said, with a twinkle in his eyes.
Yvonne wondered about that. What she was feeling was either love or magic, maybe both.

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