You leap from the shower, eager to catch the call before he hangs up the phone.  Just as your foot hits the floor you feel it slip out from under you.  Your body crashes down uncontrollably.  You grasp for the flimsy shower curtain but it only pulls away from the rings across the pole and slows your descent slightly.  Your neck bends awkwardly as your skull strikes the toilet seat with an unnerving force.  You hear a grotesque snap, audible even beyond the confines of your own body.  You crumple to the floor, legs crooked over the edge of the tub.  Most of the shower curtain comes down with you, leaving only one desperate little ring, clinging tightly to the far corner of the plastic.  Your vision is blurry at best as you try to focus.  Your brain tells your hand to grab the tub and pull yourself upright, but the signals are stopped dead in their tracks, somewhere along the maze of your nerves.  You try to move, but any hope of getting up is thwarted by your uncooperative limbs.  You begin to panic.  You try to scream but you can't seem to work up enought force in your chest to exhale anything other than a pathetic whimper.  The fan and the sound of the running water drown out any hopes of being heard.

 

    You lay there, frozen in time, silently waiting for some answer to your predicament.  You try desperately to convince yourself that the injury must only be temporary, and that you will regain sensation in your extremites soon, but as more time passes, that hope passes with it.   You float in and out of conciousness as your brain begins to swell, damaged by the forceful impact.   Periodically you float back to a waking state and are again reminded of your dire engagement.  

Mortality on a tile floor