Poor Buttercup

I picture a wall nigh ten feet in front of the speeding horse I ride. As that ten feet turns to zero, blood rushes through to my hands and I see the veins pulsate over my knuckles. There is no flash of my life. The horses face flattens against the wall in slow motion, with every cracked bone, broken tooth, and other detail enhanced like it was remastered.

 Poor Buttercup.

 As the horse has now stopped moving and I haven’t, I feel myself leaving the saddle, my face accelerating towards the wall at speed. Fruitlessly, I start to throw my pulsating hands up to protect my precious nose, but it’s too late. Fruitfully, I close my eyes. Again, in slow motion, I feel the pressure on my nose and cheek, knowing soon that I’ll hear cracks and pops and the pain that follows will be devastating. Something interesting happens. The pressure is suddenly relieved, in the same fashion that the pressure on a pencil might be relieved just as it punctures a piece of paper.

 My body feels like it’s being drawn through a sheet of water. The edge of what I can only assume is reality is peeling down me as I continue with my horseless forward momentum. Just as I feel that edge lapse my feet I find the will to reopen my eyes. The first thing I gaze upon is my hands, as they’re right in front of my face. Blue. Hazy. Translucent. Odd.

 I realize now that I was several feet off the ground, being without a horse. I look down to discover no ground, and pause for a moment to discover no sense of movement. I turn back to try to decipher where I am or how I got here, only to find nothing. The same nothing that is everywhere else.

 Well. Shit. I wish I had a hamburger.

 And I have a hamburger.

Maybe it’s not so bad here.