The sun. The warmth. The wide-open land; there was nobody
for miles in any direction. Sure, it was work but it gave me the time and space
to unleash my teenage angst.
Usually I wouldn’t be alone with Bessie. She could be
temperamental, and only Dad knew how to set her straight. But he had to help
with deliveries back the shed. So, it was just Bessie and I ploughing,
fertilizing, and contemplating the wonders of the universe. But as the
thermometer hit 45 degrees and kept climbing, she threw in the towel. Her
steering was jammed. After exhausting attempts to fix it from my seat, I had no
other choice but to crawl under her one tonne body to investigate.
A few taps and knocks, “And there, that should be fixed”. I
shuffled backwards on my stomach, like a lizard in reverse. But her rusted
chassis gave way and broke in half, falling onto my back. My face dove into the
ground, mouth open and all. Fresh fertiliser. Without the support, all four
wheels caved inwards. They somehow managed to find balance, but only after I
felt the weight of Bessie upon my shoulders, literally. She made a deal with the
ground and they had me clamped like a vice. Figuring this may be the only advantage of my lanky, prepubescent body; I breathed in and tried to wriggle free. The weight just
came down harder. Not unbearable, just not desirable.
Time passed, but without a reference I had no idea if it was
seconds, minutes or hours. My mind grew impatient and starting throwing blows
back and forth.
“Don’t panic.”
“Squirm.”
“Someone will be here soon, the delivery should be unpacked by now.”
“They’ll never come.”
“But they said they would…”
“They lied.”
But a noise broke up the fight. Coughing, spluttering, the
groan got louder. Damn it. I left the engine running, and Bessie had started to
overheat.
Rogue fumes defied the rules of dispersion and made their
way under the tractor. They drifted under my nose, around my head and back
again. I could feel the fumes slowly
squeezing my neck as they circled. I was losing breath, losing consciousness; I had to make one
last attempt to escape. But all I manage to do is turn my head the other way. A part of me wish I hadn’t. I could smell it before I could
see it. The fallen chassis had punctured the petrol tank. It dripped onto the
dry grass and fertiliser below.
The heat from the sun, earth and tractor met. I could see
them mingle as the air they inhabited blurred the background. It had me
hypnotised, until I saw smoke. Testosterone and adrenaline (neither of which I thought
had before) pumped through my body. I broke my chest free from the grip of the chassis. But this isn’t the happily ever after. My sudden movements
caused petrol to pour from the leak straight onto a newborn flame.
For the next three hours of my life, I only saw three
things.
I wish I had a bit more of an impressive, gory story to tell you.
How I could feel the fire consuming me. How the more it ate, the more it grew.
I wish I could tell you about the smell of burning flesh. But I can’t, because
that’s not what I can remember.
All I could feel was pain. Relieved, in part, when
the morphine dripped into my system. All I could see was my body wrapped in
bandages. All I could smell was antiseptic wash, and the occasional waft of vomit from the bed beside me.
With 40 per cent of my body in second and third degree
burns, I knew I’d have to stay in this place for a while. But after infection,
after infection, after infection, it was longer than anyone expected. Six weeks
in a room without a window. There was no sun. There was no warmth. There was no
space. There was no serenity. But this is now no more than a memory, marked in the
scars on my skin.
