Prologue

It was over three agonising hours that I reached the conclusion I had died.

I suspected now that I must have expired on the operating table and, for whatever reason, had ended up in some twisted bastard’s version of hell. Maybe it was because I cussed too much, I don’t know, but whichever sick motherfucker’s job it was to dole out my afterlife, he had seen fit to ensure I relived the moment of my death over and over again.

My eyes were taped shut but I could still make out the surgical lamps burning through my eyelids. The smell of disinfectant mixed with that of piss and burning flesh. There was music too, some sort of avant-garde jazz shit, and voices. Coldly, as they hacked through my internal organs, they explained the forthcoming procedure, just so I’d know what was coming next. I won’t even attempt to encapsulate the pain in words, but to say it really fucking hurt doesn’t come close. You can’t really appreciate the depth of pain the human body can experience until you cannot move a single muscle. People don’t realise how much pain can be filtered out when you can curl up, wince or scream.

They often say that when faced with death, your life flashes before your eyes. I can’t say I know a great deal about that. All I do know is I sure as hell had plenty of time to contemplate the errors of my way, and there were many.