First, you smell the sulfur. You feel warm concrete on your fingertips. It creeps to your elbow. For a moment, you think about proximodistal development, whether this would be a good counter-example. Then, you remember what happened.
You get fleeting images only. Clocking-out at work. Orange clouds over grey buildings. Horns. Concrete— you remember thinking it looked comfortable, as if you could sleep there. Flying cars. Fire. Shockwaves. Black. You open your eyes.
Your eyes focus on the gravel first. Inches from your face, you see more detail than you ever thought possible. Intricacies fade as your gaze sprints forward. You see smoke sweeping through the parking lot. The sky is black, leering over burning storefronts. No stars. No streetlights. Horns sprout from the ground.
You process colors first. The head: black, seemingly caked in soot, ash. The body: red, blood stains. You try to focus on details, but they keep shifting like a taillight behind a rainy windshield. It looks at you, moves forward. You get to your feet.
You realize you aren’t hurt. You reflect briefly, but cannot figure it out. The creature smiles at you. You feel your arms rise, your mouth open. You hear a thunderous scream— sounds from other worlds. Your story is over. You’re a passenger in a gondola.
M. Espinosa 