When I was thirteen I died. For two minutes and eleven seconds my heartbeat stopped and my pulse was gone and I was dead. One second I was racing my bike along the sidewalk and made a turn to the left to shortcut across the road, the next I stared up at a blank ceiling, wrapped in bandages and wires and tubes while some machine beeped next to me in a steady rhythm. I had no recollection of what happened in between.
It didn’t take long for this little gap in my memory to be filled. My father still can’t stop telling the story any chance he gets. He tells it during dinner, during long car trips, during TV commercial breaks. He tells it to friends and colleagues and strangers at the bus stop - “Remember that time you got hit by that car. We were in a panic when we got the call. They said your heart stopped. You were dead, you know. Two minutes and eleven seconds...” - Guess that’s his way of coping with a traumatic experience.
Two minutes and eleven seconds - two minutes and eleven seconds - two minutes and eleven seconds. It didn’t take long for that number to start haunting me. Soon it came for me every night.
The dreams started a few months after the accident. My body was already on its way to complete recovery. I had left the hospital bed behind and returned home. My left leg was still trapped in a cast and the scars left on my torso would never fade, but that was it. It was around this time I found myself waking up at night more and more often, sweating and shivering, a pain enveloping my chest. Soon I grew able to remember the nightmares that preceded these episodes, or rather the one single nightmare. It was the same exact dream every night and still is to this day. The same visions - the same sounds - and it always lasts the exact same time. Two minutes and eleven second. I know, because as it became a regular occurance I started counting along.
One second, two seconds, three seconds…
The rough asphalt of the road takes in half of my view. My body lies in an awkward angle on the coarse grey material. Glittering fragments of glass and small smears of red fluid are splattered around me.
Four seconds, five seconds, six seconds…
People stand around me. Some shuffle for a better view. Others just stay frozen in place, their eyes wide open, their trembling hands squeezed against their lips. A blue light flashes somewhere behind me, it’s presence vaguely visible even against the bright sunlight.
Thirteen seconds, fourteen seconds, fifteen seconds…
A deep pain ripples through me, cold and heavy, as if every bit of warmth slowly bleeds from my body. It radiates from my torso up into my neck and my head and my limbs. I want to scream, but my lips refuse to move. They are slightly open. My tongue hangs out on one side. A thick fluid slowly drips from it to the ground. I want to move, but my muscles don’t respond. I expect the scent of oil and blood to spread in my nose, but I smell nothing. I smell nothing because no air enters my nostrils. No air enters my nostrils because I have stopped breathing.
Twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty…
Growling Engines. Distant sirens. Voices. Contorted fragments of noise that make less and less sense. Hands touch me, squeeze against my neck and wrists. I can barely make out the sensation, but it is there. Careful at first, then more and more frantic. Shouts grow louder. More hands. More touches. Shadows fall over me as people draw closer.
Fifty five, fifty six, fifty seven…
Someone stabilizes my neck. Someone grabs hold of my arm. Someone slightly lifts my legs. Someone carefully squeezes against my shoulder. With a gentle fluid motion I am slowly flipped onto my back. The sun sends out its blinding rays. Fabric tears as the shirt is removed from my torso.
One-twenty five, One-twenty six, One-twenty seven…
A man kneels over me, his bright orange vest stained blood. He positions his hand against my chest, then presses down. My body twitches under the impact like a giant ragdoll. Another pump. Another. Then a short pause. Then it starts again. Pump-pump-pump-pause… Pump-pump-pump-pause…
One-fifty nine, two minutes, two-one…
Pump-pump-pump-pause… Pump-pump-pump-pause… - It’s hard to keep track of the time. The palms hit my chest with a steady rhythm, but that rhythm doesn’t fully match the seconds ticking by. I feel like I am burning, like there is fire licking over my insides, like thousands of insects burrow into my skin and start tearing out my flesh.
Two-six, two-seven, two-eight - pump-pump-pump-pause…
I stare up at the blue sky, concentrate on the faint white cloud formation drifting past, try to focus on its contours and shades. Anything to keep my mind far away from the next second. Anything to divert my attention from the moment where the pain reaches its peak.
Two-nine -
One of my rips breaks under the pressure. I want to scream, need to scream, but my body is dead and my lungs are empty and those hands keep grinding and pumping, unrelenting, driving the broken piece of bone deeper and deeper -
Two-ten -
Something jolts in my chest. A first flutter of my heart muscle. Dots of light dance in front of my pupils. The sunlight disintegrates the remnants of the cloud overhead. Shouting voices twisting roaring spinning -
Two-eleven…
… and I awake. Back in my bed. The pain is still there, throbbing and pumping, as if those hands are still hammering down on me. For the first few moments it feels as if my heartbeat might go out again. Cold sweat coats my skin. My muscles tremble. Then the sensation fades. Every night. Two minutes and eleven seconds.
I’ve talked to doctors about the reoccurring pain, had a few hospital check-ups. There’s nothing physically wrong with me, nothing they can find at least. I haven’t told anyone about the dream though. This is the first time I put the experience to words. Even telling strangers on the internet feels shameful and embarrassing. It’s one thing to show off the parts on my back where my skin is still twisted and contorted, like some viking showing off his old battle scars. It’s another thing entirely to talk about waking up every night crying and sobbing. It’s another thing to admit to secretly covering my mattress with newspaper sheets in case I lose control of my bladder again.
But I have to talk about it. Something changed. It happened a few days ago.
One second, rwo seconds, three seconds...
A woman - a bit older, maybe in her late sixties, thin and tall, dressed in painfully bright mismatching colors sporting outdated flower patterns - walked along the sidewalk. She was slightly hunched over, carrying two black plastic bags in her hands. She was just another passer-by. She was just some random old lady. And she was not supposed to be there.
Three, four, five...
I’ve lived through the dream thousands of times. Every little moment has always been the same. Every detail is burned into my mind. Unchanging. Unwavering. Always the same. This woman was not supposed to be there. She had never been there before.
Ten, eleven, twelve...
She stopped and looked over.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…
She stood there, staring, then began to slowly walk towards the scene of the accident. Her bags swung back and forth in her hand. Some blackish fluid dripped from one of them with each step.
Fifty five, fifty six, fifty seven...
She stopped at the outer edge of the crowd, half hidden between the wall people. The first-responders grabbed me, as they always do, and gently flipped me onto my back. I couldn’t see her anymore from this new position. The dream continued as it always had.
The hands squeezed down on my chest. The cloud drifted across the sky. My rib broke and my heart fluttered to life and I woke up. Everything just as always. Except for that woman. She shouldn’t have been there.
The next night she was back. This time she stood in the center of the crowd from the very start. I could see how garish she looked. Her makeup had been painted thick over her aging face. White glittering powder covered her cheeks. Her lips were smeared with gleaming red lipstick to the point they looked like wax replicas. Her eyes were encircled with dark violet rings of shade. The face beneath this grotesque mask of makeup was inhumanly still. No twitch of a muscle, no flare of a nostril - she didn’t even seem to blink.
She just stood there, staring down at me. Her pupils never shifted away. When I was flipped onto my back she drifted closer, towering in the corner of my vision. The seconds ticked down. The pain grew worse. The palms hit my chest. Pump-pump-pump-pause... Her body tensed in rhythm to the resuscitation. Her thin bony fingers tightened to shaking fists, then opened up again. Pump-pump-pump-pause... Two-nine, two-ten, two-eleven…
When I woke up I half expected to see her still standing there, somewhere in the darkness of my room. Of course she was gone along with the rest of the dream. I was alone with my pain and my tears and my shame. She’d return the night after.
This time she stood even closer, as close as she was able to get. Other members of the crowd slightly leaned away from her, as if she was emitting a disgusting smell. She didn’t react, didn’t seem to register anything besides me, as if all these other people weren’t even there in the first place.
Fifty five, fifty six, fifty seven…
The woman tried to step closer the moment I was turned on my back. One of the first responders stepped into her path and pushed her back. Pump-pump-pump-pause…
One-thirty three, one-thirty four, one-thirty five...
The pain welled up and grew deeper and the woman was still there, her lengthy body twisting to the left and to the right, her fingers twitching in rhythm to those palms squeezing down - pump-pump-pump-pause…
One-forty nine, one-fifty, one fifty-one…
The moment of the worst pain was quickly approaching. She tried to push closer once more, was repelled a second time.
Two-four, two-six, two seven…
My eyes drifted to the cloud above. The worst pain was coming. Just three more seconds... Two more seconds... Pump-pump-pump-pause…
Two-eight, two nine…
Here it was. The hand would squeeze down and my rip would break and my body would go up in flames and…
Two-ten, two-eleven…
The hand didn’t return. My rip didn’t break. My heart didn’t start beating again.
Two-twelve, two thirteen…
The open palm hovered just above my chest, about to push down. A wrinkly set of fingers gripped its wrist. The woman had managed to push into the circle of first responders and grabbed the man just as he was about to administer the last life-giving thrust. Nails bit into flesh. She tore him backwards. He screamed.
Two-eighteen, two-nineteen…
Somebody else rushed to my side. Another set of hands found my chest, began to push frantically and struggled to find the right rhythm.
Two-twenty three, two twenty four...
Something inside me slipped further and further away. A grey shade drifted over the world.
Two-twenty five...
The woman was still there, trying to get to this new person too, but the others held her back and two-twenty six and the hands pressed against my chest, faster and faster and the shouts grew louder and two-twenty seven and closer together and somebody else arrived, a second -two-twenty eight- set of hands joining the first and a rib -two-twenty nine- broke and another and they pumped and -two-thirty- screamed and -two-thirty one, two-thirty two, two-thir…
And then I woke. My body twitched on the mattress, convulsing. I was frozen from the vicious cramps tearing their way through me. I tried to scream, but my jaw just inched open for a second, then bit down with all might as the next cramp hit me. My tongue got caught between my teeth. The taste of blood spread. My stomach cramped and something was pushed up my throat.
With a desperate motion I threw myself to the side. Somehow I had gathered enough force to fling myself off the side of my bed. My forehead slammed against the edge of my night table. My vision blurred. I crashed to the ground unable to dampen the fall in any way. At least I wouldn’t suffocate on my own vomit in this new position. I lay there for minutes until the worst of the pain slowly receded.
This was the last time I slept. Fear of what had happened kept me awake through the next night. A pack of caffeine pills got me through the one after. Now I am reaching my limit. I feel myself slipping, feel myself drifting off. I won’t be able to stay conscious for much longer. Dark spidery dots crawl in the corner of my vision. My head feels like it is filled with cotton. My eyelids flutter close and it gets harder and harder to open them back up.
Soon I will sleep. Soon I will dream. Soon I will die again. For two minutes and eleven seconds. Or maybe forever.
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