The hand

It was a hand that had healed thousands. A hand that had held medicines for the patient, a hand that supported the weak and infirm, a hand that had never tired of reaching out to the sick, needy masses that flowed into the city hospital.

It didn’t hold the manicured fingers of Mrs.O, the rich benefactor who gave only to burnish her credentials as a social activist. The arm that held it had never been cloaked in a doctor’s white and had never held a scalpel. The hand that selflessly gave but often received little in return.

The hand was withered now, little strength remaining in its fingers. The body that held the hand was in its last throes unconsciously looking for succour. The hand that came to help was another healing hand.

This is my entry to the flash fiction challenge, Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers hosted by the amazing Priceless Joy. We are given a photo prompt and approximately 75-175 words with which to create our stories. This challenge is open to all who would like to participate. Thank you Artycaptures for the image.

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