Take Two
Now that he was standing there, wind wafting against him pathetically, James realised it wasn't that impressive of a drop. There was bright spring grass below, dappled by the shadows cast by nearby maple trees. The sidewalk was a full eight meters away from him. There were no ledges he could see. James sighed a heavy sigh. I might actually survive this drop.
He pulled his earbuds off; they'd been pumping him with stoner music for seven hours flat, egging him on. He grumbled in disgust. I don't even like this fucking music, he thought to himself, letting the earbuds fall to the gravelled roof he stood on.
He was about to turn, and then paused. He closed his eyes, counting off his steady heartbeat. At six, he sighed again and opened his eyes. He knew if he backed away now, he might never pluck up the courage to go again. It was a shit place to do it, but it was his place.
Five years of buildup, he thought to himself, and we come to it at last. He breathed in, then out. It had been a struggle, a pure bloody struggle, getting to this point. And now it was almost over.
Looking down those four stories again, he shrugged. It'll probably do the trick anyways, he thought hopefully. I hear life support's not too bad.
James then realised he was seriously overdramatizing this. What the hell am I doing here, a fucking countdown? He thought in frustration. To hell with this.
With that, he threw himself from the building, seeing the grass come closer and clo-
James gasped as he sat up in his bed. Except it wasn't his bed. It looked like a hospital. The pale, sickly sterile light made him close his eyes blearily. He looked around, realising he could still turn his head despite the almost assured head trauma, and went to the standing mirror.
He looked fine. Not even speedy-recovery-fine. As though he hadn't jumped off a building at all. James backed away slowly from the mirror and turned to the exit.
He passed down a flickering hallway, empty of everything but saccharine elevator music that seemed to come from nowhere. Finally, he came to the reception desk, or what looked like a reception desk. He rang the bell on the corner of the desk tentatively, and the most stereotypical receptionist imaginable emerged.
"How can I help you?" She asked, adjusting her receptionist glasses on her receptionist nose.
"Where am I?" This wasn't the most pressing question on James' mind, but it was the first one that escaped him.
"The receptions desk, silly boy."
James paused, then chose a different question. "What happened to me?"
"You fell off a building, fractured your skull, and broke your neck, dear."
James paused again, then picked Question Number Three. "So I died?"
"And came back dearie," The receptionist began clacking away at her Stone Age computer. "It happens from time to time."
James hated repeating himself, but he couldn't help but pause and follow up with another question. "How long have I been in a coma?"
The receptionist laughed a receptionist's laugh. "There was no coma, sweetie. Some lucky boys get two tries. You die once, then you live again. As I said, it happens."
James had nothing to say.
