Body of a Doe [short stories]

clearly meant it, can't embrace it

The continuum between the click of a grenade pin being pulled and the halting of your brain was three seconds.

Enough to recall your mother's laughter as she poured rubbing alcohol upon your scraped knees. Enough to catch a glimpse of bodies tumbling over barbwires and punctured by bullets. Enough to duck and pray fervently to the god you've stopped believing for a last-saving grace.

Three seconds—starting from the detonation of a bomb to the slow-motion blink of your eyes as you watched orange smoke and fragments bursting through metal casing—you forgot about death and believed in life, once again.

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