The Sixth Minute

I heard a wave crashing nearby. Moments later, I felt it touching me gently. It hurt. It burned—not the clean burn of fire, but something deeper, more raw, like my nerves were processing sensations they weren't designed to interpret. I wanted to scream, but no sound came from my mouth. My throat worked uselessly; I tried to swallow, but started a fitful cough instead. Eventually, I managed a groan and slowly opened my eyes. Sunset? No. Sunrise. But the light felt off, the colours bleeding at the edges like a watercolour left in the rain.

Carefully, I exhaled deeply, ignoring the searing pain in my lungs—each breath pulled through glass. Good. Sunrise was good, no matter what it looked like. I had survived another day. Time to investigate the damage; one breath at a time.

Another wave came crashing in, this time rolling over me. I hissed through clenched teeth. The saltwater found every wound—I was naked, exposed, and it had a field day with me. My skin had cracked open on my back as well as my hands—the splits widening as the water receded, pulling at torn edges. I had to get away and find some shelter. Even if the saltwater might help clean the wounds, I hated it when sand worked its way into open flesh. Grit embedding itself in the pink-red underneath. It would take forever to get out again. Especially on the feet.

But how had I survived?

Last time I checked, I had died on April 23, 2078. Painfully. My skin had been ripped open almost everywhere from the lashes, my mantra of "don't scream" becoming harder and harder to hold onto as the world went grey, then black, then nothing.

So yes, I had died. At least that part had worked out as planned. But why had I woken at a beach? I should have been up north, freezing my ass off in a bunker making plans on how to take them down. Preparing our final stand. I shouldn’t have woken at a bloody sunny beach. Remus should have been with me. Where was he?

Pushing forward, I crawled away from the water and another wound on my back cracked open again—fresh pain blooming through the old. I let out a guttural sound, gritted my teeth, and dragged myself further from the surf. Each movement felt wrong, my body protesting in ways that went beyond simple injury.

How long had I been lying at this beach? Did they fly over and dump me here after I had died? Had I been in a coma? I shouldn’t have been dead for more than 5 minutes. 6 minutes tops. During practice, I had managed four minutes, pushing five, of being dead—but I had always needed Remus to help me come back. Where the fuck was he?

I growled in frustration and pushed myself onto my arms. Without looking at them, I could feel the wounds on my hands breaking as I balled my fists, skin parting like old fabric. Take a deep breath. No need to get all worked up. One thing at a time. I needed a stupidly simple plan.

One. Get out of the fucking sand and away from the sea and the sun. Two. Find something to wear. Being naked won't do me any good. Three. Figure out where I am. Maybe one of the hideouts is close by.

That's a good enough action plan—for now.

Summoning all my will, I looked up. There was a palm tree, absurdly mundane, waving in the wind. I crawled toward it and slowly and extremely carefully dragged myself up into a somewhat standing position. Clinging to the rough bark, I looked around, my vision swimming.

There had to be some kind of shade. Cover. Anything.

And there was. Taking another deep breath, my vision got slightly better. Maybe a klick away, barely visible through the heat shimmer that shouldn’t exist at sunrise, a house stood in front of a line of trees. Dark windows. Still. Waiting.

This might solve problems one, two, and three all at once, and unleash a ton more nightmares. Nevertheless, I smiled—felt my lips crack as they stretched—and took a wobbly step toward the house. Time to return the favour.