To Live Again

2. The Rescue

I've never given much thought to the afterlife. Seems pointless when life is stretched out in front of you in one endless hamster wheel of 'to-dos' and 'next projects'. Truthfully, who thinks about death? Really? It's not like it's one of those topics you casually drop into conversation.

"So, Mary, ever thought about what happens when we kick the bucket?"

She'd cackle in my face and advise I take some Prozac. No one talks about uncomfortable things where I'm from. It's bad luck. You'd be inviting death, and no one wants that. So, for all my avoidance, why am I dead?

And, why is death so damn painful.

After the shattering of my lungs. The sense that ocean water, salt, and an overwhelming crushing force had ripped me from the inside out, there was a moment of peace. A suspension of time. Just floating in the nothing. It felt nice, or perhaps nice is a bit strong of a word, it just felt timeless. My thoughts all scattered with the rest of my body, because it felt that way. There's something genuinely peaceful about not having one single thought. Not one.

Then ... pain.

One moment I'm lost in the gloom, next, whatever's left of my skin and bones slams onto solid rock. My head ... Christ... if it's still attached then my brains must be jellified, or on their way to a similar consistency. Everything burns, like someone set a fire in my chest and poured petrol down my throat for good measure.

Blood. The metallic tang coats my tongue—how can I still taste? The smell, it's strong, and I can feel it now. Feel the congealing and the gore. I'm not dead. Yet.

Oh god ... I'm not dead.

I should be dead. I'd rather be dead.

Focus. You're alive. Move. Try and move.

At the command my toes curl and, with a jolt of white-hot agony I find my legs. Not broken. They're not broken, and I can feel them, my neck hasn't snapped. Arms? More crunching, more blinding pain, and my fingers splay over cold stone. I'm on my belly.

Up. Get up.

The commands bellow through my mind; my hazy, shattering mind, and I try to catch the thoughts as they flitter through, try to order them into actions. Yes, I need to get up. Need to move.

Get. Up.

I snarl at the command, and find my mouth and voice just in time for a frail wail to rip it's way from somewhere deep inside. I'm trying, I push the thought back. The quarrel in my own head seems to up the anté, for something quivers through muscles that I can't quite coordinate. Adrenaline; pure, powerful, primal energy, and next thing I know I'm reaching. Hands slapping on stones, knees and feet scrambling, belly dragging across shale and slimy rock.

Faster. On your feet.

Shakily, I draw a knee to my chest and scream at the pain radiating through my ribs. But I push anyway. It hurts like hell, but I'm determined to stand, but nature has another plan. A force, like a thousand icy needles, cracks down against my back and slams face first against the ground. Waves. The roar of the ocean behind answers with another slam of it's watery punch, buckling my legs and taking it with any ideas I might've had of fighting back.

Get up!

I can't. It's impossible. "I can't." I whisper, nose pressed into the shale. "Please ... it's over."

My mind goes silent. The sudden emptiness is eerie, like those commands weren't my own self-preservation, but an intruder desperately feeding me hope. Some kind of angry hope, but hope nonetheless. I'm so torn up I don't even care. It's useless, even if I could stand, I'm certain there's nothing left of me worth surviving.