So very few of us ever wake up knowing today is the last day. Today is the day when it's all gonna come to a screaching halt. Scott Reynolds was no different than the rest of us. In fact, that is a truism about Scott in so many ways.
Scott was generally what one would call average. He was neither athletic, nor a sloth. He was neither brilliant nor dull. Scott was for all intents and purposes just a guy making his way in the world. Scott worked at a telecommunications company as an IT professional in order to pay for his small townhouse in a quiet residential neighbourhood. He went to work, he came home. He watched television, surfed the internet, and ate a balanced diet. For fun, Scott had a few friends, but really no one close. They would meet on Wednesdays and bowl. He wasn't that in to it, but it was an excuse to get out of the house.
Scott had grown up an orphan, so he really had no family, nor had he learned the necessity for close bonds, or the skills to make them for that matter. He wasn't bitter about this, after all, life happens; however, it did make for a slightly lonelier existence than would be the comfortable norm.
We don't really need to go in to all of this, because this is the part where something very bad happens, and all of this just lets you know what kind of guy he was, not what kind of dead guy he is.
His last day started of pretty much the same as most. Alarm, shower, instant Breakfast, car, traffic. That's when it all came unglued for Scott. On a normal day,
he wouldn't have slammed on the brakes to avoid a car running a red light. On a normal day he wouldn't have been in front of a semi carrying a full load. On a normal day he would be humming along to the radio, snickering at the dj, making mental notes about the weather.
The accident was loud, a giant cacophony of screeching tires, grinding metal, and breaking bones but Scott really didn't care. After all, it's not the noise of the impact, it's the force right? In this case, the impact was great enough to
cause his neck to snap, and one of the bone fragments to sever an artery, flooding his brain with a viscous red liquid he had previously relied on to keep him alive.
Much of the next 15 minutes would be hard for Scott to remember; but, if you asked him, he would have told you it was exactly like the movies. Snapshots in time. This impression was most likely due to the aforementioned life giving fluids now flooding the cognitive centers of his brain, but really, who cares about the science of why he saw the world the way he did in his final moments.
A voice asking him if he's all right.
The look on the face of a young EMT that said holy shit, how do I fix this poor bastard.
Next came that feeling of being lifted up and out.
The pain crashing in on him in waves of excruciating awareness. Suddenly he remembered he had a body, and suddenly that body hated him.
The sound of a different, but equally dumbfounded EMT shouting "Hurry the fuck up Tim, we gotta get him there, he ain't dyin' in my bus," as the siren sang a
song of impending doom.
Harsh white light that normally would have sent stabbing pains through his skull and out the other side softened, while the pace of conversation between doctors and nurses quickened to staccato pace.
The Sounds of machine, his only connection to the living.
The unmistakable sound of high pitched tone, acting like a homing beacon for the recently departed.
The doctor's voice fading with the light, : call it. Time of death eight thirt....."
But this is not a story of death. This is a story of after death.
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