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Previously...

I’m thrown forwards in my seat banging my head on the steering wheel. The engine stalls and I madly try to restart it. My panic increases when I see my father approaching with a rifle.

“Simon, stop what you are doing and get out,” my father instructs, aiming the rifle in my direction.

Climbing out of the wrecked vehicle, I shout at my father, “I’m not Simon. I hate being called Simon. I’m Jasmine and I’m your daughter. If you can’t accept that, then just fucking shoot me and end this. I’m not pretending to be a boy anymore!”

I watch my father pull the trigger and I suddenly feel a sharp stabbing pain in my shoulder. Screaming in agony, I stagger backwards and fall to the ground as I lose consciousness.

Chapter 1

I feel dizzy as the blackness overcomes me. However, apart from a sharp stinging sensation in my shoulder, I don’t feel much pain. I do have a high pain threshold. I wouldn’t have been able to castrate myself without it.

Time seems to slow down and I find myself lying on the floor looking up at a stationary gull flying overhead, frozen in time and space. After staring at it for several seconds, I slowly sit up. My father is several feet in front of me, still holding the rifle pointing in my direction. My mother is in the process of getting to her feet. Both of them are unmoving like statues.

I am suddenly aware of a third person approaching from the shadows. The figure appears to be around seven feet tall and is dressed in a coarse black floor-length robe, the hood obscuring the head. The only parts of the body visible are the skeletal hands carrying the large scythe. The unmistakably classic figure of the grim reaper approaches me.

“I’m dead?” I ask.

“YES!” he responds in a deep booming ethereal voice.

“I have ceased to be? I’ve departed the living realm? Bereft of life I rest in peace?” I enquire looking for clarification.

“YES!” he repeats.

“So I’ll be pushing up the daises? My metabolic processes are history? I’ve kicked the bucket, shuffled off my mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible?” I seek confirmation, adding, “in other words, I’ve fucking snuffed it?”

“NOT ANOTHER ONE!” Death retorts despondently.

“One what?” I ask

“ANOTHER BLOODY MONTY PYTHON ADDICT. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES I HAVE HAD TO LISTEN TO VARIATIONS OF THAT FLIPPING PARROT SKETCH?” it says with annoyance, “I LOOK FORWARD TO THE DAY I GET TO MEET MESSERS CLEESE AND PALIN.”

Death sighs and then adds, “I SUPPOSE NEXT YOU WILL BE TRYING TO CHALLENGE ME IN SOME STUPID CONTEST TO EXTEND YOUR PITIFUL EARTHBOUND EXISTENCE?”

“Do you actually accept challenges or is that part fictional?” I ask, trying to think of how I can compete with, and possibly beat, death.

“YOU CAN CHALLENGE ME IF YOU REALLY INSIST, BUT I WARN YOU IT’S POINTLESS. I ALWAYS WIN IN THE END!”

“I suppose chess is a bad idea, I suspect you have defeated many a grandmaster.”

“INDEED.”

“I get the impression you probably need to speak all known languages so word games like Scrabble and Boggle are going to be pointless.”

“CORRECT.”

“How good are you at Twister?”

The reaper bends down. His left hand detaches itself, scuttles off circling me, before returning to the end of his arm bone.

“Okay, I think I’ll pass on that one.”

“A WISE DECISION.”

I pause and think for a while, looking at the figure standing in front of me, “You are an existential personification of an abstract concept represented only by a bladed farming implement, some fabric, and bones.”

“YOUR POINT BEING?”

“You don’t have, or require, any lungs. I presume you are not using the mammalian method of sound production by passing air over vocal cords. Instead, you must have a different method for sonic creation, perhaps vibrating the air molecules in the same fashion as an electronic speaker.”

“I DON’T FOLLOW THE RELEVANCY OF YOUR DEDUCTIONS.”

“If you don’t have any lungs, then you can’t blow up a balloon. If I challenge you to a balloon modelling contest in which alternative inflation devices are banned, you will not be able to take part and therefore have to forfeit.”

Death doesn’t respond immediately, and it is several minutes before he gives his simple response of, “BOLLOCKS!”

“Sorry, don’t have any,” I say as I pass out once again.

I feel numb and cold. I want to shiver but I don’t seem able to move. It is dark and I can’t see anything. I can feel fabric on my face. The sound of a spade digging into soil fills my ears and the sensation of something landing on my head momentarily startles me. Fighting for breath, I try to move, but I’m unable to do so.

I black out again and suddenly I can’t breathe. Using a burst of energy, I force myself to sit up, gasping for air. I’m wrapped in a blanket and have to fight my way out of it. Strong sunlight burns my eyes as I finally uncover myself.

I am sitting in a shallow hole, half-covered with soil, wrapped in an old blanket. Looking down at my shoulder, my shirt is covered in blood from the bullet wound. I can’t feel or move my left arm. I am surrounded by rapeseed oil plants. The pollen from the bright yellow flowers is stinging my nose.

Hauling myself to my feet out of the shallow grave in which I have been dumped, I look around trying to gain my bearings. I am in the middle of a large field, the sea of yellow flowers extending in all directions as far as I can see. The ground is totally flat, and I can’t see any recognisable features. A few trees are dotted around the horizon. I decide to head for the nearest tree; perhaps I can climb it and gain bearings to civilisation.

I know this isn’t one of our fields, and I don’t recognise the area. The sheer flatness of the landscape suggests I must be somewhere in north Norfolk, possibly as far west as the fenlands of Lincolnshire. Something about the area doesn’t seem right, but I can’t put my finger on it.

I start walking towards the tree. As I get nearer, I can hear an engine running. I emerge from the final few feet of plants, pushing them aside with my good arm. I come into a clearing at the base of the tree.

The noise has been coming from one of our farm buggies, which stops in front of me. The driver undoes the safety harness and climbs out, standing in front of me. He is dressed all in white, from head to toe. The white helmet on his head, with dark black visor, completely covers his identity.

The person stands in front of me for a few seconds. He reminds me of the Stig character from the Top Gear television programme. Raising his hands, he puts them on the side of the helmet and slowly lifts it off his head.

“Josh!” I exclaim as his grinning face comes into view.

“Nice to see you, honey,” he replies, “glad I found you, now let’s get out of here.”

Replacing his helmet, we climb into the buggy. I grab the spare helmet off the passenger seat and we climb into the cramped two-seater.

Putting it into gear, we rapidly accelerate down a track between rows of rapeseed, leaving a cloud of dust in our wake. Josh floors the accelerator pedal and the engine roars as we continue to get faster and faster. Josh sits motionless in the driver’s seat to my right, staring directly at the track ahead.

We keep accelerating until the countryside is whizzing past in a blur. I can feel my adrenaline rising as we continue to travel at ludicrous speeds. I become aware of the buzzing of further engines, but can’t see any other vehicles.

We suddenly burst out of the endless field and onto a golden sandy beach, skidding slightly sideways as we take a left turn and fly across the damp harder sand just above the water level, the waves breaking to our right.

To our left are now sand dunes, with grass sticking up. There is a distinct gradient to the beach, and I can no longer see the countryside to our left over the sand dunes.

Three dirt bikes surround us, jumping over the sand dunes and landing behind our vehicle. The helmets they are wearing are not covering their faces, and I recognise Bart, Steve and David chasing us. All three of them are holding swords in their hands.

David comes up behind us on the left. He climbs up onto the saddle of the bike and jumps across onto the back of the buggy, the motorcycle he was on losing control and cartwheeling across the sand as we leave it behind.

“I will deal with this,” Josh states, “here, take over.”

Pulling a sword from beneath his seat, he climbs out the side of the vehicle as I grab the steering wheel and slide across into his position. Josh is standing on the front right corner of the buggy, hanging onto the roof frame with his left hand and swinging his sword with his right. David stands on the rear bumper hanging onto the engine cover. The two of them continue to swing their weapons at each other and I can hear the clinking of metal on metal as the swords engage above my head.

Bart comes up our right hand side. Holding his sword in his left hand, he swings it at me through the open roll cage of the buggy. I dodge his swing and it comes within inches of my arm. Pulling a second sword out from under the seat, I commence a sword fight with Bart, leaning out the driver’s side of the buggy while trying to maintain a straight course down the harder wet sand on the shore.

Realising there is little room for the motorcycle to ride between the sea and me; I start to ease my course closer to the breaking waves. Hitting the water at this speed would cause serious aquaplaning and would throw us off course. Swinging my sword with added vigour, I force Bart to hit a breaking wave. The effect is instantaneous and disastrous for Bart as the front wheel of his bike is caught in the water and he somersaults over the handlebars.

The sword fight on the roof above me is still ongoing as I bring us back up the beach, slightly away from the dangers of the water. The third motorcycle comes alongside on the left and Steve jumps across, landing on the sill next to the passenger seat.

I switch the sword to my left hand and swing it at him to prevent him from getting in. He attempts to stab me with his sword, but I deflect his blows as I continue to drive at speed down the beach, weaving in and out of seals that are sunning themselves on the golden sands.

The whole ridiculousness of the situation slowly dawns on me. I am sitting in a speeding buggy, going over ninety miles an hour down a never-ending beach, having a swordfight with one of my old school enemies, in a buggy which should only be capable of half this speed, while my boyfriend is doing similar feats on the roof.

This can’t be real, in which case I must be dreaming. If that is the case, then it’s time to start controlling the situation. Testing the theory I concentrate and a hail of bullets strafe the buggy, instantly knocking David and Steve from the speeding vehicle.

The Tiger Moth biplane that just fired on us is now flying alongside us over the sea, the pilot, Wendy, is waving at us. I sigh in relief, now knowing I’m dreaming. Realising it’s time to wake up, the dream fades.

I am aware I’m laying on my back with my eyes closed.

“Charge! Clear!” I hear a male voice shout and I am suddenly jolted by an electric shock to the chest. “Okay, we have a pulse.”

A second voice then asks, “What have we got here?”

“Male, age 13, with critical blood loss from serious genital damage. Looks like it’s self-inflicted, apparently found by the mother clasping a scalpel and soldering iron. She was able to stem the bleeding while help arrived. He’s arrested twice so far, it doesn’t look good,” the first voice states in a businesslike fashion.

“That looks nasty,” the second voice replies, “seems like the testicles have been severed. There appears to be burn marks inside the wounds. Some form of botched self-castration. I’ll prep the theatre for immediate use.”

A loud continuous tone penetrates my ears as the first voice shouts, “Shit! Charge! Clear!”

I find myself back in the field of rapeseed, sitting underneath the tree. I am obviously dreaming again.

“No way was that real,” I state, kicking the tree. “I refuse to believe the last two months are a dream and that I’m in hospital due to failing my surgery.”

“You really shouldn’t talk to yourself,” Josh says as he walks round from behind the tree, “it’s a sign that you’re going mad.”

“And talking to a figment of my imagination is somehow better?” I ask.

“I prefer to think of myself as a narrative device to allow two-way conversation for exposition and the progression of the plot,” he replies.

“What?” I respond in confusion.

“Never mind,” he answers, “Now what appears to be the problem?”

“I seem to be stuck in a dream sequence. Every time I think I’m awake, it turns out to be another dream,” I say in annoyance.

“Except for this time you seem to have immediately realised you’re asleep,” Josh declares.

I imagine a swing into existence, hanging from one of the tree branches, and sit down. “I know I’m dreaming, but I can’t wake up. I seem to be stuck, and I don’t know why.”

“Well, despite the grim reaper earlier, you’re not dead,” Josh says.

“Cognito ergo sum, I think therefore I am, and therefore I must still be alive,” I reply.

“If you were simply asleep, then you should be able to wake up. That means that either you’re in a coma, or something else is preventing you from waking,” Josh reasons. “You have been shot. You could have been sedated or anesthetised for emergency surgery to repair the damage.”

“All very logical,” I admit, “Just very frustrating that I seem unable to do anything.”

“Well what have you tried?” I’m asked.

“Willing myself to wake up,” I reply, “What else can I do?”

“What things normally wake you up?” Josh enquires.

I think for a moment before saying, “Light, loud noises, changes in temperature.”

“They are all external influences,” Josh states, “what about things internal to your body or dreams?”

I ponder this for a few minutes before answering, “I wake up from nightmares, but I can’t scare myself awake without first forgetting I’m in a dream. It won’t work if I’m aware that I can’t be hurt. I also tend to wake up when I need the toilet, but that could take hours. The only other thing that occasionally wakes me up is getting horny.”

I grin at Josh before licking my lips and approaching him. I pull him into a kiss, remembering the experience from before, only this time imagining it going further. In my dream world, I’m no longer a boy, but a fully functional woman, and I visualise him taking my virginity.

“Is it working?” he asks as he thrusts deeply into me.

“No. Without any physical stimulation I’m unlikely to turn myself on enough, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have fun trying,” I say as I pull his mouth back to mine. So I’m stuck asleep, I might as well enjoy it.

I find myself waking in an unfamiliar room. The beeping of apparatus catches my attention and I slowly raise my head. I’m propped up in a hospital bed. My left arm is completely numb, and I can see various tubes going in and out of my hand, but I can’t feel a thing, which is just as well as I hate needles.

“You’re awake,” a familiar voice comes from my right. Turning my head, I see Dr Lambert sitting in the chair near the bed.

She holds up a glass of water with a straw, putting it to my lips. I take a sip, quenching my thirst. Once satisfied, she returns it to the table.

“What happened?” I whisper hoarsely.

“You were shot,” replies the doctor.

“I know that,” I manage, “What has happened since? How did I get here? Where are Mum and Dad?”

“That isn’t important at the moment. What is of more concern is how you ended up here in the first place,” she answers. “What happened before you got shot?”

“I told my parents I’m transgendered,” I respond.

“How did they react?” Dr Lambert enquires.

“They shot me! I’m lucky to be alive!” I shout.

“Why did they shoot you?” I’m asked.

“They were angry with me, they don’t like the fact I’m a girl,” I counter.

“Are you sure? Think carefully, what evidence is there for them being angry?” Dr Lambert states calmly, “excluding the use of firearms.”

I replay the encounter as best as I remember, “They were shouting at me. My mother yelled at me when I tried to drive away.”

“She shouted for you to stop,” Dr Lambert stated, “I believe you were trying to run her over at the time...”

I nod, that wasn’t one of my brightest ideas.

Dr Lambert continues, “...other than to tell you to stop, did they at any other point shout at you.”

I think back, but I can’t remember them yelling at me, “They were mainly giving me the silent treatment.”

“Are you sure? I’m not certain that’s the case. Have you considered that it was you who were doing all the shouting, and they were simply concerned for your welfare?” Dr Lambert asks. I lay in silence contemplating the possibility. “Other than shooting you, which we will come back to later, did they do anything else to harm you?”

“They chased me into the barn,” I declare.

“Are you sure? Is following you the same as chasing? Were they running after you or simply walking. How long were you in the barn before they found you crying?” poses the doctor.

“It was a little while. I caught them off guard, and I’m younger and faster than they are. They didn’t harm me as I didn’t give them the opportunity,” I explain.

“Are you sure your actions were justified? Did they try and attack you when you were in the barn?” Dr Lambert enquires.

I think back trying to pinpoint what they did, “My mother tried to grab me when I was crying.”

“Define grab. Are you sure she was trying to harm you? Or possibly trying to restrain you so that you didn’t hurt anybody?” Dr Lambert questions, “Could she simply have been trying to give you a hug because you were crying?”

I hesitate, she could indeed be correct. Dr Lambert is sitting with a neutral expression on her face. I realise that she is trying to get me to see this logically, rather than emotionally.

“Okay,” I reply with a sigh, “I panicked. I expected them to beat the crap out of me, and let myself become overwhelmed with emotion. I wasn’t thinking straight, and simply reacted rather than analysing the situation and acting accordingly.”

The doctor nods at my revelation, before saying, “If you think back over the last few weeks, I think you may realise that your impressions of your parents are not quite what you think they are.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“You have pierced ears, something you never thought possible. They let you dress as a girl, even reminding you that you own the maid’s costume. They let you sleep with your cousin. Need I go on?” Dr Lambert enquires.

“They weren’t exactly pleased with my choice of earrings. My father treated my cross-dressing as a joke. It was my uncle who facilitated the bedroom arrangements for his own twisted purposes of deliberately trying to get his daughter into trouble,” I reply.

“Yet they didn’t force you to remove the earrings, neither did they ban you from cross-dressing, in fact you were given permission to continue,” Dr Lambert counters. “Overall I think it’s safe to say you’re crap at interpreting your parents’ responses.”

Dr Lambert stares at me, which makes me slightly uncomfortable. I hate to admit it, but she’s right.

“Let’s face it, your whole ability to make decisions is most likely up the spout,” the doctor continues, “I would go as far as saying you are completely irrational and incapable of using logic.”

“Hey! That isn’t true,” I exclaim.

“Cutting your testicles off wasn’t exactly a sane approach to the problem of gender identity,” she accuses. “Are you sure you’re a girl? Or is that another rash decision based on emotional instability brought on by defective reasoning?”

“I am a girl, and that was the only way, given the evidence available at the time, to reach the goal of avoiding male puberty,” I reply angrily.

“Are you sure? You seem to be very aggressive, that is a male trait,” she declares.

“Bollocks!” I reply, “Women are just as capable of getting angry as men. Admittedly, they may turn to violence less, but it isn’t unheard of for women to lay into one another.”

“Are you sure you aren’t just pretending to be a girl so that you can justify being attracted to boys?” Dr Lambert enquires.

“My sexuality has nothing to do with my gender,” I answer. “Being gay certainly doesn’t automatically make you transgendered, and being transgendered doesn’t necessarily mean you’re gay.”

“So the fact you love Josh has nothing to do with it?” the doctor queries.

“How do you know I love Josh?” I counter.

“You’re going to deny you were just dreaming about him? I saw your rapid eye movement while you slept,” the doctor explains. “You also had the most stupidest grin on your face imaginable.”

“That isn’t relevant. I barely knew him before my surgery, I only developed feelings for him afterwards,” I admit.

“Are you sure? Perhaps we should analyse your persona further,” Dr Lambert says excitedly. “What we need to do is compare your masculine and feminine traits and see how they compare. Simon, Simone, please come in here.”

We are joined by a young boy and a teenage girl. The boy is about seven, and looks very similar to how I looked at that age, except he is more muscular than I used to be. He is dressed in very rugged clothes. The girl looks to be my age, and facially appears very similar to Emily. However, this girl has extremely large breasts, possibly silicone enhanced, and has blonde hair. She is dressed in a bikini that is leaving very little to the imagination, consisting of string and very small triangles of fabric covering the nipples and crotch. She is chewing bubble gum.

“What the hell? Who are you two supposed to be?” I ask.

“I’m your underdeveloped male side,” The boy timidly replies in a squeaky voice.

“And, like, I’m, like, your feminine, like, side,” the girl answers in a Californian accent, and I’m not referring to the small village further up the Norfolk coast.

“Since when have I been an airhead bimbo?” I ask annoyed. “I certainly do not speak with that ridiculous accent, putting ‘like’ in where no ‘like’ is needed.”

“Like, whatever,” the girl replies, blowing a large bubble, which pops before being drawn back into her mouth for further chewing.

“How come pipsqueak here represents my male side?” I ask Dr Lambert.

The boy immediately breaks out crying. “You’ve, like, hurt ’is feelings,” the girl says.

“Does he not fit your perception of your male side?” Dr Lambert enquires. “He is small, underdeveloped and oversensitive. Not exactly very manly is he?”

“This is ridiculous,” I state, “How is this supposed to help?”

“I am here to help you analyse your situation, to question your decisions and make sure you aren’t acting rashly,” the doctor answers, “These representations are the personifications of your personality that you are trying to balance your psyche against.”

“Stop talking bollocks,” I respond with annoyance.

The boy bursts out crying again, to which the girl reacts by saying, “Isn’t, like, the lack of bollocks, like, the problem?”

“Shut up and sod off,” I state, “this is ridiculous, this isn’t psychiatry, it’s just random questioning.”

“No it isn’t,” contradicts Dr Lambert, “I’m providing counter arguments to your decisions to make you see other points of view.”

“By constantly undermining my confidence?” I accuse.

“You must have doubts or you wouldn’t be arguing with me,” she replies.

“This isn’t an argument, this is simply contradiction constantly interspersed with the question ‘Are you sure?’” I declare.

“Oh yes it is an argument,” she responds.

“Oh no it isn’t!”

“Oh yes it is!”

“Oh no it isn’t!”

“Oh yes it is!”

“Oh no it isn’t. It’s just contradiction!” I reply.

“No it isn’t!” Dr Lambert exclaims.

“It IS!”

“It is NOT!”

“You just contradicted me!”

“No I didn’t!”

“You DID!”

“No, no, no!” Dr Lambert asserts.

“You did just then!” I state.

“Nonsense!”

“This is futile!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure!”

“Are you really sure?”

“Yes.”

“Are you really, really sure?”

“Yes.”

“I need to go to the bathroom,” the young boy interrupts, crossing his legs and squirming.

“Sod off and go then,” I reply with anger.

“We can’t go till you wake up,” he squeaks with discomfort.

Ignoring him I turn back to Dr Lambert, “Stop asking silly questions. If you have anything useful to say then say it, otherwise this session is over.”

“What were you shot with?” Dr Lambert asks.

“A rifle,” I reply.

“Are you sure?” she enquires.

I clench my fists and growl in annoyance at the same repeated question, “Of course I’m sure, I’ve had to polish the bloody thing often enough. I think I’m capable of recognising what I have been shot with.”

“What type of rifle is it?” Dr Lambert requests clarification.

“It’s an air rifle,” I reply, “and yes I am sure of that!”

“What ammunition does it take? Pellets, BBs, something else?” she queries.

“It’s a pellet gun, but we mainly use it with an adaptor for administering tranquilizer darts,” I answer.

Dr Lambert raises her eyebrows at me, “And you were shot with?”

The sudden realisation of what happened strikes me. I wasn’t shot with pellets or bullets; I was hit by a tranquiliser dart. I’m unconscious from the effects of the sedative. My dreaming of being unable to breathe is probably a side effect of the dart. They are known to cause respiratory problems. I didn’t realise they were hallucinogenic; it’s no wonder the sheep seem out of it when they come round.

When I awake, I am disorientated and it takes me a few seconds to realise where I am. I slowly sit up, and as my eyes become accustomed to the dim light, I realise I am on my bed, still clothed and wrapped in blankets. My slippers have been removed, but all my other clothing is intact. I look at the clock, its bright digits illuminating the room. It is half past one in the morning. I must have been asleep for more than four hours.

The impact of the tranquilizer dart from the air rifle has left my shoulder sore. I rub the affected area with my hand. It’s still slightly numb. I must have been hit with one of the stronger darts. I used a lower strength version as local anaesthetic, so know their effectiveness.

I glance round the room and spot a figure in the gloom. My mother sits sleeping in an easy chair that has been placed next to my bed. I guess they do care about me after all. Instead of trying to kill me, they were simply trying to restrain me. I guess my parents are taking it in turns to watch over me in case I have respiratory issues, although it would help if they were to stay awake.

My bedroom door is open and there is a dim light coming from the hall. Feeling the pressure building in my bladder, I decide I need to visit the bathroom. I carefully get up and silently slip to the door. Peeking out into the hall, I see that that the light is coming from a table lamp situated at the top of the stairs. The door to my parents’ room is open and my father is lying asleep in bed.

I enter the bathroom and turn on the light. I sit on the toilet and relieve myself as quietly as I can, trying to get my stream to hit the porcelain rather than the water in the bottom. I no longer have much control and tend to splash, but I’m able to complete the task without making a lot of noise. I don’t flush the toilet in case it wakes my parents.

I wash my hands and face. Noticing I have dirt on my arms and legs from lying on the barn floor, I take a flannel and clean myself up, stripping naked as I do so.

I lift the lid off the large plastic container we use as a linen basket to find a garden gnome staring up at me. The painted-concrete figurine is about a foot tall and is laying on top of the dirty laundry. I have no idea what it’s doing in the bathroom. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I seriously hope that I’m not still dreaming. If I am, then I have probably just wet myself. I open my eyes and the gnome is still in the laundry hamper. I pick it up and deposit my clothes onto the pile; there is no need to hide my feminine attire anymore. I return the gnome to the top of the mound and replace the lid.

Turning off the lights, I carefully open the door and listen to see if anybody has woken up. Everything is calm so I carefully start making my way back to my room. I can see my father is still asleep, so tip toe past trying not to make a sound. Peeking round the doorframe, my mother is still snoozing in the chair.

Opening my bedside cabinet, I pull out my silk baby-doll pyjamas and slip them on before removing the blankets from my bed and sliding under the lightweight duvet. Making myself comfortable I go back to sleep.

I find myself once again standing in the farmyard in front of the crashed buggy. My father is holding the gun to his shoulder as he asks me to calm down and stop trying to run away. He fires and I feel the dart hit me in the shoulder.

Time seems to slow down and I find myself lying on the floor looking up at a stationary gull flying overhead, frozen in time and space. After staring at it for several seconds, I slowly sit up. My father is several feet in front of me, still holding the rifle pointing in my direction. My mother is in the process of getting to her feet. Both of them are unmoving like statues.

I am suddenly aware of a third person approaching from the shadows. The figure appears to be around seven feet tall and is dressed in coarse black floor-length robes, the hood obscuring the head. The only parts of the body visible are the skeletal hands carrying the large scythe. The unmistakably classic figure of the grim reaper approaches me.

A fireball engulfs the approaching form, the smouldering fabric floating to the ground as the metal scythe clatters on the concrete. A second later, it starts raining bone as the fragments thrown high in the air fall back down to earth. I can smell the smoke emanating from the rocket launcher on my shoulder. I smile, as everything grows dark.

“Okay, he’s stable,” states a male voice, “pulse is weak, but steady. Get that extra blood hooked up.”

“The surgeons will be ready for him in a few minutes,” a second voice states, “Thank god he didn’t cut through an artery. Why would somebody want to mutilate themselves by cutting their own testicles off?”