The image is jarring as if I feel I should know what this means. But then I’m there, in front of the three of them. The rain is falling in earnest now, and Rory holds a large black umbrella over himself as the woman presses herself up against his side, eager to avoid the downpour.
Trauma happens in slow motion. I’ve heard this often before. Life flashes before your eyes, I’ve heard people say. It’s a common phenomenon, and more often than not, it’s those who live to tell the tales of smashing through car windows or hurtling through the air as they watch the metal of their motorbike skidding across the road. These people will often tell of their traumatic circumstances or horrific accident as it flashes by them in slow motion, frame after frame.
On this cold, wet Saturday morning, I find for the first time I understand. It’s not the events of your life that fill your mind, but the present, the now. But I’m not run over by a car as I cross the road or coming off a bike or flying through a windshield. I experience none of those things, though I am perhaps becoming unhinged.
Frame 1: ‘Rory!’ The growl sounds ripped from the depths of my gut.
Frame 2: His slight smile grows, lifting the corners of his mouth. His eyes are aglow.
Frame 3: I’m aware of the scruff of his bristled chin.
Frame 4: His brow furrowing at the rise of my arm.
Frame 5: Words fall from my mouth—curses in English and Afrikaans.
Frame 6: The feel of his fingers gripping my forearm, pulling me underneath the shelter.Or maybe into him.
Frame 7: The scent of a man I suddenly realise to be... Kit.
What the fuck?
