Out of the frying pan

In spite of all that had happened to me, I instantly felt sick.

Although I couldn't feel a thing, my hand appeared to be completely embedded in the tubular metal of the bedstead. It was something my eyes and mind wanted to refuse to see - and yet I couldn't look away; I was both repulsed and fascinated.

The world seemed to grow dark, and I think I was on the point of passing out, when Kate snapped me out of it. "Alan? Alan. Can you move your hand? Can you remove it?"

I looked at her, feeling panicky. What if I couldn't?

"Alan. Listen to me. It should come out as easily as it went in - so please try and be calm. And then gently bring your hand upwards. Can you do that?"

I nodded. I did mean to move slowly, but instead I yanked my hand upwards - it was almost an involuntary movement.

For a brief second, my mind insisted that there must be a tearing of flesh and sinew, a crunching of bones - but my hand came free with the same resistance as if it had been a bowl of water, rather than a framework of metal.

I grinned, held my hand up for Kate to see, and just had time to say, "look, Kate! It wo..."

Before I found myself saying "...rked." to no-one but myself.

I was instantly back under the bridge where I'd been earlier that day.



Story begins here.