Written in a Writer’s Circle last week:
Morgan Freeman’s Voice- flash fiction by Dr. Judy McNutt
Previous escapades at Black Point had not prepared me for the sense of doom creeping up the back of my neck. The the safety piton pinged out of the crevice between two slabs of rock. Ugh oh!
Sucked downward by the pull of gravity I tumble headfirst into the wicked knife-edged fissure. Instead of my planned graceful descent, hands and arms flail out to slow or stop my fall, then they reflexively cover my braincase and face.
Bosh! Hip, shoulder, chin, cheek, forehead– smashed, wet, bloodied. Right ear scraped off, held on by a ridiculous flap of skin. Concussing against sharp protrusions in the path of my tumbling body, I noted, and catalogued each injury as I fell. Gash under right arm. Pulverized elbow. Tender flesh splayed open beneath chin, vision clouded with blood, teeth crunched together through tongue.
Attempts to stop my fall by jamming my knees into the rock wall zooming by me fail, ending in two bashed patellas. Thoughts of surgeries flip by. Black Point is eating my lunch. The final compression comes as a rock shelf rushes upward to meet my soft plummeting body. Bam!
Rock dust, sand, and gravel rain on my battered and broken bones. My shredded tissues and bloodied clothes already collecting dust. Both of my shoes, lost. Over the edge, the silence arrests everything, except that rushing, pounding whoosh inside my ears. My heart conspires against my life as it faithfully pumps my blood into the thirsty sandstone and grit. Torrents of warm red goo pool around my left cheek where it rests against the sandstone. Involuntary cough. Agony. Note to self, don’t cough. Chunks of tongue expectorated to rid my mouth of gore. Sips of air are shallow and few and my breath wheezes and gurgles. Body tissues and bones cry out in anguish, my voice is howling, which further ravages my throat.
Curiously, I recall that after a trauma massive levels of adrenaline can block pain.
The legendary head-on-collision death of comedian Sam Kinison blips into one corner of my mind. It happened on a desert road between Los Angeles and Laughlin, Nevada. Only the windshield of his white Trans Am prevented Sam from being thrown from his white Trans Am convertible.
I see it all on my internal telly screen. Me here, Sam there. Picture in picture. Witnesses, including me, see him get out of his car and run round saying he doesn’t want to die. Look, there is only a small cut on his forehead and lip. Despite Sam’s protestations, his friend convinces him to lie on the ground to wait for help. Within a few minutes the hormones, chemicals and blood pressure that have been keeping him alive, relax. Sam dies of massive internal injuries.
I’m outside myself now, so it’s ok. The video is still playing. Close up of the Sam Kinison laying in the desert sand. Picture-in-picture with my body convulsing in fear, agony, dread and shock.
“He must have had an appointment with destiny, otherwise why would he have come out here alone?” Am I dead? That’s Morgan Freeman’s voice!
Where is my dose of pain-blocking epinephrine?
Maybe I’m not hurt that bad this time.