Hothead (Hothead #1)

Prologue

Tristan

Eventually, everyone dies. In my first year of nursing school at UCLA, one of my professors gave us the cheery task of researching what happens in the mind just before death.

What a fun activity for a bunch of twenty-two-year-olds who still spent most of their weekends drinking a terrifying amount of alcohol and then shotgunning energy drinks at a rate of efficiency that would only be improved by an IV.

(At least, that was my experience in nursing school.)

My grim, Red Bull-fueled research led me to find that most of what we know about the mind’s activity right before death comes from looking at Near-Death-Experiences and neurological scans.

People who have been declared clinically dead and are then revived often describe their last moments before death as involving intense memories, flashbacks, and a sense of peace, or even euphoria.

Some say that they experience a sort of out-of-body sensation or spiritual visions.

Others describe an intense feeling of lucidity and clarity about past actions. Memories return, realizations hit.

Neurological scans support these findings and provide a more grounded, scientific understanding of their implications.

In the moments before death, the brain is often under extreme stress, and it can produce waves of chemicals like serotonin or adrenaline to combat the stress.

Scientists and doctors have speculated that these suddenly released chemicals might account for dying patients’ reported lucidity, peace, or transcendent experiences.

Death, these studies say, is ultimately a peaceful thing.

And, well, I’d like to say a whole-hearted fuck you to the authors of those studies.

? ? ?

I am not aware, at first, that I am about to encounter death firsthand.

It’s like I’m waking up from a bad dream or a nightmare. I am confused and in pain, and I feel lost.

The world around me is alternately dark and bright, great flashes of shadow and blinding lights. Red, blue, white. My head pounds, my eyes aching with each flash of light.

It feels like there is a terrible pressure on my chest. I can’t hear anything except for a dull roar, almost like the ocean, all around me.

Could I be in the ocean?

But, no, that can’t be.

My hands and face are wet, but it isn’t from water. I feel the sticky, viscous liquid on my face, smeared on my hands, and some part of my unconscious mind registers what it is, but my conscious mind refuses to accept this.

Because if I am really covered in blood, then that means that something is wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

There are lead weights in my brain, dragging me away from awareness, beckoning me back into the warm darkness of oblivion. I try to fight the weights, struggle to stay conscious.

It’s hard to breathe.

My lungs burn with each breath, and my chest and my ribs ache. I try not to focus on that pain, try to ground myself in my surroundings.

Darkness, then flashing lights. With each flash of red, or blue, or white, I try to make out where I am. What’s the weight on my chest? Why can’t I move?

Why am I in so much pain?

There are brief flashes of memory:

The dark road…

The car…

Rain, so much rain, coming out of nowhere…

Warren saying something about climate change, trying to make a joke of the terrible conditions…

The blinding lights—headlights—so close that they seem on top of us…

A noise so awful I don’t think I’ll ever hear anything again…

Warren screaming my name…

Warren…

Warren!

I try to scream his name through my broken throat, but I don’t know if any sound comes out. All I hear is the dull roar of an ocean that isn’t there.

The blood that covers me is mine, or his, I don’t know. There’s so much of it. Too much of it. I’m trapped in the car, and I can’t see him. I can’t hear him. I can’t reach him.

I scream and scream and scream, and I’m still screaming when I’m finally pulled from the car.