Eight Seconds To Fall

1

LUKE

The first thing I remember is the sound.

Not the crowd.
Not the announcer.
Not even the bull.

Just the crack.

A sickening, hollow crack that echoed inside my skull like a gunshot fired underwater.

For a second, I didn't feel anything.

I was still on him.

Eight hundred pounds of muscle and fury twisted beneath me, hide slick with sweat, shoulders rolling like a storm. My gloved hand was locked in tight. My free arm cut through the air, chasing balance I could feel slipping away.

I'd ridden worse.

I'd come back from worse.

I remember thinking that.
Then the world snapped sideways.

The bull's hind legs kicked high, his shoulders dropped, and my body pitched forward. My grip tore loose. The sky spun into dirt. The dirt slammed into bone.

My head hit first.

White.

Everything went white.

The arena exploded into noise.

I tried to roll.

That was the mistake.

The bull turned.

He shouldn't have turned that fast.

I saw him coming-just a flash of horn and fury-and then something punched through my side. Not sharp at first. Just pressure. Crushing, impossible pressure that stole the air from my lungs.

The horn drove in.

The world slowed.

I didn't understand what had happened until I tasted blood.

Metallic. Thick.

I tried to breathe and couldn't.
Tried to move and couldn't.

Somewhere distant, someone was screaming.

It might've been me.

The bull's weight lifted and slammed down again. A boot hooked my vest. Hands grabbed my arms. Everything blurred into heat and noise and a roaring inside my skull that drowned out the crowd.

I remember staring at the sky.

Blue.

So damn blue.

And thinking:
This is how it ends.

When I woke up, it wasn't blue.
It was white.

Hospital white.

The kind that smells like antiseptic and bad news.

My head felt like it had been split open with an axe. My ribs burned with every breath. Something tugged at my side when I tried to move.

Machines beeped in steady rhythm beside me.

For a second, I thought I was still dreaming.

Then the pain hit full force.

I tried to sit up.

Big mistake.

The room spun violently, nausea slamming into me like another bull. A hand pressed firmly against my shoulder.

"Don't," someone said.

A doctor. Late forties. Calm voice. The kind that had delivered this speech before.

"You've been unconscious for nearly two days, Luke."

Two days.

That didn't make sense.

The ride was eight seconds.

"How bad?" My voice came out wrecked. Barely mine.

He hesitated.
That's when I knew.

"You suffered a fractured skull," he said evenly. "A severe concussion. And the bull's horn penetrated your right side. You're lucky it missed your lung."

Lucky.

I almost laughed, but it hurt too much.

"You also lost a significant amount of blood."

I stared at the ceiling.

The roaring in my ears wasn't from the arena anymore. It was from inside my own head.

Fractured skull.

Impaled.

Two days gone.

The doctor stepped closer. "Luke, I'm going to be very direct with you."

There it was.
That tone.

"I strongly advise you to stop riding."

Silence filled the room.
I blinked at him.
He kept going.

"Another head injury like this? You may not wake up. And if you do, you may not walk away from it."

He let that sit.

"You've had multiple concussions already. Your brain hasn't fully healed from the previous ones. You're twenty-six years old. Your body is telling you it's done."

Twenty-six.

Too young to quit.
Too young to die.

My jaw tightened. "I'll heal."

His expression didn't change. "This isn't about healing. This is about survival."

I turned my head away from him, staring at the window.

Outside, the sky was blue.

Mocking me.

"You get eight seconds out there," he continued. "Eight seconds for the rest of your life."

Eight seconds.

It didn't sound like much.

But those eight seconds were everything.

The gate cracking open.

The surge of power beneath you.

The crowd holding its breath.

The moment right before chaos when you're more alive than you've ever been.

They didn't understand that part.
Doctors never did.

"You need to consider what you're willing to lose," he said quietly.

I already knew.

Everything.

A year later, I still hear that crack in my head sometimes.

Usually right before the chute gate swings open.

Usually when I'm about to make a decision I shouldn't.

The scar along my side pulls tight when I stretch. The headaches come without warning. Bright lights sometimes blur at the edges.

But I'm still here.
Still riding.

And tonight, when they call my name and the crowd rises to its feet, I know exactly what the doctor would say if he could see me now.

He'd say I'm gambling with my life.

Maybe I am.

But when that gate opens and the bull explodes into the arena, there's only one thing I've ever been sure of-

I'd rather die in those eight seconds
than spend the rest of my life wondering what could've been.