my body is a bullet in slow motion. I have become a projectile, and the windshield offers little resistance. For a solitary second i deny all the proper laws of physics, and I am in flight. Still, adrenalin works faster than gravity forcing me to accept the inevitable, the scripture written in blood:

When body meets ground, ground wins.

By some miracle time to contemplate has been granted, a sick joke to play on a marked man. I have been robbed, my life taken from me in one ironically perfect alignment of time and place. At least, that's the inevitable result, a death by perfection. Those who find me won't foget that moment, that's for sure. A sight like that would be hard for the most calloused to stomach. Decapitation, delimbing, pick your poison. And if by chance, this fragile scarecrow stays intact, the result is still the same...a death by perfection. The brilliant sparkle of glass confetti as it flies through the sunlight, the silence that accompanies deep thought amid twisting metal, even the way color presents itself more vibrantly mid-flight, highlight the paradox of beauty in destruction. It has been said that the very second before you die, everything you believe comes into question. I'm down to two, and no sign of an inquisition. For years my life has been fear of the very scenerio I now portray, but in this moment of omniscience, there is no margin for fear. Fear was my sustainer, my reason, my decision. But, it is just a distant memory, tucked securely in the darkest corner of my pounding prefrontal cortex. For now, I am safe.

The smell of disease, the hiss of the plastic covering the matress under me,  or the realization that there is a tube taking permanent residence in my esophagus are my options to choose from when deciding a good reason to open my eyes. There is no question of how I came to be here, no amnesia, that's good. With a once-over, I realize my body is not in the cortorted condition one would expect, considering the situation. With all four apendages locked securely in their sockets, a slight twitch of toes and fingers assures my mobility. The waiting for the pain to come might just be more unbearable than the pain itself. Besides, my body is most likely so full of medication now, that it would be oblivious to any pain. To say the least, I should feel something: a stinging, a dull ache, a burning. Nothing. Appearantly, I have superhuman strength. Enough eye movement has signaled the ever-ready nurses, to yank the tube from my throat.

With a slight accent she speaks, "Hey there, good to see you finally join us."

"Finally?"

"You were on day 29."

Though admittedly, my eyes are lying. My attention is focused on the consuming pain it takes to say "finally."  I guess that's one of the downsides of having a machine breath for you. ...gam zeh yaavor

"Do you know where you are?" that beautiful soul speaks

"Heaven?" my childish response, desperate to say the least.

"Sadie Memorial ICU," her acute counter. "You've been dead to the world for 29 days...Well, I think you're lucky. I mean, you get a month long nap, and your body heals itself while you drool like a baby."

Ahh, so there is some sarcasm in her bones. But then there's Halie, my memory, my burden, my parasite. Halie, the angel who vanished from her car 5 years ago into thin air. The roadside refused to give up her secrets, and all the brilliant police work in the world couldn't bring my angel back. I was so naive in the beginning, assuming the best. That she had ran off to "live" and escape the mundane existence that I had to offer. I was naive in the beginning, a broken vessel.