I was riding home from work last night, through the park at the bottom of the mountain, when I saw two guys in some kind of chicane. One guy was backing away, the other following him closely, yelling, pushing his face forward aggressively and punching the air with his index finger.
It was one of those weird, close evenings you sometimes get in Montreal, where the sky feels uncomfortably low, and everything and everyone moves slowly, as if the air is viscous.
In every other way it was a perfectly innocuous scene -- people were meandering through the park, making their way home from work, unperturbed, glancing only half-curiously at these two guys whose anger seemed on the verge of spilling over into violence.
And then suddenly my brain jumped on ahead of itself.
I imagine one of the guys pulling out a gun and waving it around, before levelling it at his friend’s chest and pulling the trigger. The friend folds up. The guy looks around wildly, sees me biking past, and fires another shot.
I hear nothing at first, see only in split-second, explosive still frames: the veins bulging in his neck, his mouth moving, the spittle on his lips.
Then I hear the report of the shot, and a great whooshing sound as blood roars in my ears.
Something slams into my body with the impact of a careening car
Adrenaline empties the air from my lungs
A hot, sticky wetness blossoms in my abdomen. The sharp, fresh smell of grass fills my nostrils. Leaves in the trees above my head are each one distinct, lavishly green and ornate. The sky tilts sickeningly and wheels in a slow arc.
This whole ghastly scenario has spread out before my mind's eye in less than a second, as I’m turning my head from the men, to look at the path in front of me.
I feel the ghost echo of adrenaline pulsing through my lower body. I breathe in the cool evening air.
As I lean on the pedals to begin the slow ascent up the mountain, I wonder if we are always just this one swift moment away from chaos?
It was one of those weird, close evenings you sometimes get in Montreal, where the sky feels uncomfortably low, and everything and everyone moves slowly, as if the air is viscous.
In every other way it was a perfectly innocuous scene -- people were meandering through the park, making their way home from work, unperturbed, glancing only half-curiously at these two guys whose anger seemed on the verge of spilling over into violence.
And then suddenly my brain jumped on ahead of itself.
I imagine one of the guys pulling out a gun and waving it around, before levelling it at his friend’s chest and pulling the trigger. The friend folds up. The guy looks around wildly, sees me biking past, and fires another shot.
I hear nothing at first, see only in split-second, explosive still frames: the veins bulging in his neck, his mouth moving, the spittle on his lips.
Then I hear the report of the shot, and a great whooshing sound as blood roars in my ears.
Something slams into my body with the impact of a careening car
Adrenaline empties the air from my lungs
A hot, sticky wetness blossoms in my abdomen. The sharp, fresh smell of grass fills my nostrils. Leaves in the trees above my head are each one distinct, lavishly green and ornate. The sky tilts sickeningly and wheels in a slow arc.
This whole ghastly scenario has spread out before my mind's eye in less than a second, as I’m turning my head from the men, to look at the path in front of me.
I feel the ghost echo of adrenaline pulsing through my lower body. I breathe in the cool evening air.
As I lean on the pedals to begin the slow ascent up the mountain, I wonder if we are always just this one swift moment away from chaos?
