Forty
I can't move but I can breathe, for a while at least. I know people are looking for me but the air is running out and I'm losing body heat. How many minutes left; twenty, thirty minutes; forty at most?
'Forty, it's only a number' I said a few weeks ago. 'Life begins at forty'. I wasn't sure I believed it but I said it anyway. I should be at home surrounded by friends and drinking champagne. Instead I wanted a 'challenge'. Now the only thing on ice is me. I remember the avalanche hurtling towards me and a fall that lasted forever.
It's so cold. I don't know how long it's been; I can't see my watch. What are my odds; twenty, thirty, forty to one? I'm feeling tired but I know I shouldn't sleep.
It's warmer now. I can see myself. The room is packed with people and equipment. I'm the centre of attention like a birthday boy at a party but there is no cake nor candles. I am wired to machines. They are worried about my heart rate. I don't need to look at the screen. Some numbers stay with you, for life.
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