Highlight Reel

He woke up disoriented with no idea where he was. Aware, in a vague way, that he should probably feel panic, and disconcerted at its absence. He didn't feel anything much at all.

He lay still and registered the smooth fabric under his hands, the sterile whiteness all around him. Am I in hospital then?

A motherly face and figure loomed into view, between his face and the distant ceiling. All blue and white, with the peaked cap which nurses hadn't worn for decades, but which screamed "nurse" all the same.

"Julian?" said the face. "Do you know where you are?"

"No," he admitted.

"That's fine, some disorientation is normal at this stage. Do you feel any pain?"

He took a moment to consider, and realised he didn't.

"No," he said again.

"Good, good. Now, take your time, just see if you can sit up for me... That's it." She twitched the sheets back with a practised hand. "Swing your legs out of the bed... Lovely. Slowly, slowly... Feel your feet on the floor. Put your weight on them gradually..."

He got up and followed her along the corridor, and through a side door. It was much darker in here, and a dusty hush hung in the air.

"Make yourself comfortable," she whispered with a toothy smile. The blue and white uniform was gone, and in its place was a bright red t-shirt, and a red and yellow cap. She pushed a large paper bag into his hands, and guided him to a plush red seat.

His eyes adjusted to the gloom and he settled back. It really was quite comfy. A screen crackled to life yards in front of him, dark curtains drawing away from it.

"32" appeared on the grainy screen, several feet tall, and immediately began counting back. It stopped when it got to seven, and the screen went black. Scooping popcorn into his mouth, he gawped at it, expectant.

He recognised that sunlit expanse of grass, that lake. Those people. That was his family. That was him, age seven. He remembered that picnic. Very starkly as a matter of fact. It was diamond bright in his memory, because he'd almost drowned.

He watched his own memory unroll on the screen. Saw himself slip under surface, and then again. You couldn't see, from here, how much the seven year old version of himself was panicking. His chest squeezed, now, in sympathy. He remembered that bursting, crushing, pain in his lungs-

Look, there's his older brother cutting through the water with long, brown limbs. Yanking him to the surface-

-air and light pouring in, how good that felt, how sweet-

The picture faded. "32" reappeared against a dull grey background, and counted back, this time stopping at sixteen. The image was murky this time. Grubby concrete splashed with graffiti, barely any light. Laughter and footsteps echoed all around, and shadows darted across the wall.

There he is! Felix, his best friend all through school, and Tony as well. The three of them ran through the abandoned building, converse sneakers slapping on dusty stairs, climbing higher and higher...

Stretched out on the roof, looking at the stars. Having another beer. Passing a joint. Daring each other to walk along the edge. His foot slipping. Arms windmilling. The jolt of shock and fear across his face when he realised he couldn't save himself, and he was plummeting.... Wind rushing past his ears. Hands scrabbling, grabbing, desperate, (please!) anything....

He managed to catch a window ledge, first with one hand, then the other. Dangling for a moment, away with disbelief. Knowing his strength would give out if he wasted it by lingering, he heaved himself up and clambered through the paneless window. It had been broken at some point, the jagged remnants of it snagged his jeans and his skin, but he hardly noticed.

More thundering footsteps echoing through the building, and boyish voices raised and urgent, calling his name.

"I'm here!" he called out. "I'm okay!"

They went back to the roof and had another beer, laughing nonstop.

"Your face!" they said.

"I thought I was a goner," he said. He was smiling, but shock still shimmered behind his eyes.

The scene crumbled, and this time, 32 counted back to 21. Summer again. Another rush of wind, and the jolt it fired through his body, but this time it was elation, not terror. The roar of wind above, and the roar of the bike underneath, and he, sandwiched between them and grinning inside his helmet. Invincible, surely, and impossibly fast-

That's exactly how it happened: impossibly fast. One minute he was skimming over the world, untouchable, the next, the air was filled with the agonising scream of metal. Tearing. Crunching.

The driver hadn't seen him. Julian had got up and walked away, his beloved bike a totalled wreck behind him. He'd felt like he was walking on air, or on drugs. The intense adrenaline left him feeling lightheaded, and when he peeled off his leathers later, his torso and shoulders were a livid black and blue. Every time he moved, his muscles pulled and shrieked, reminding him he was lucky to be alive.

This time it took hardly any time to count back at all. It only went as far as 28. The fire at work. He'd helped Derek get out, and almost got trapped himself. It was the first time he'd knowingly put himself in Death's path. No accident, no sudden turn of events. No cloud of weed, booze and teen hormones.

There hadn't been any others, had there? That was the last one, wasn't it?

The number 32 glared at him from the screen, daring him to move. He ate another handful of buttery popcorn, and waited, but the number didn't change. It just faded, and there was his car. That was him driving. It was early morning, on his way to work. Peering through the foggy, partly frozen windscreen. The roads were deserted. The car had careened, hitting a patch of black ice. Julian had struggled to regain control. He'd ended up smashed into a tree.

This was the worst one, no doubt about it. Blood poured down his face and blossomed on his clothes.

It dripped on to his popcorn. He paused in his munching to look down. In a flat voice, he addressed the empty theatre.

"I'm dead aren't I."

+++++++

Thank you for reading.