Where's My Bloody Knife
A train is coming. I can see its light out to my right.
My stalled car sits across twin rails of potential destruction. A horn blares. A light blinds.
My seat belt buckle is jammed – or maybe I’m too scared and fumbling. No matter, I’m screwed if I don’t do something.
Train – two hundred yards and closing. Frantically it blows its horn.
Metal crumples. Glass shatters. I am violently lifted upwards and tossed into a shallow trackside pond.
I’m not dead.
Seat belt still won’t open.
I am sinking – water’s pouring in.
Where’s my bloody knife? I need it to cut my seat belt!
Water rises over my face. Everything is wet and dark.
Nothing now but black, and now white.
Bloody Hell! I am in hospital.
“A man rescued you,” Nurse McGregor says.
I am grateful to him, but I should go now.
Wait a minute. I am strapped down. I can’t get up.
Nurse," I call out. “Where’s my bloody knife.”
She laughs maniacally, her face twisted.
And I realize in horror – I am in Hell.
Bloody, bloody hell.