Tombstone

The rush of air, the exhilarating roar, the silencing of it all. There’s a pull of gravity against my face. The cold air. The rush of adrenalin.

The thump, the deceleration, and the absolute halt as I hit the surface. The boom of the water as it comes to smash against me. Is it solid? It cannot be. There is nothing but me and the water in my ears and in my eyes and the pull on my legs. And the breath knocked from my lungs. And a mind-blowing, body-shocking blow.

The survival instinct pushes me to the surface. And there comes my strength. My innate strength to pull my arms arcing over me. To swim. But my arms are heavy. The current has me. I swim. I go backwards.

I see the bridge, the bank, the ladder to safety. I see the greasy underside of the river’s surface and come up choking. The ladder has gone. The bridge is still there, but not there. I swim, my mind swims and I feel a ricochet of panic.

It tastes dirty, evil, muddy. It wraps its arms around me, taking me hostage to its sludge. I tug. I raise my arms, but it pulls me back. I am a swimmer, yet not a swimmer. I am flotsam, carried on the current with the tree trunks and with the litter and the dead and the faeces. I am discarded, like an empty bottle. A barge passes. Then I realise it is stationery. It is I who have passed. Have I passed? I am ready to give in to the pull and the sway and to the journey’s end. There is a voice and a flash of white. A landing of an object in front of me. I cannot think, imagine what this new feature is. But it floats. I must float. I must reach for it. My arms are immobile and the stretch is too much. I cannot do it, but I find I have. The grabbing of strong hands around my wrists. The shouts. The agony of climbing. I am out.

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