I breathed out and my world came to a halt. That's a metaphor, but an effective way to explain the moment. I'd burst into the dark, poky room, aiming my firearm with alliteratively accurate alacrity. Didn't check behind the door. A shot'd slotted hotly (assonance) into my ribs from behind. Pain was devouring my back like a hellhound munching on an angel, and I went down with a curse as black as night. That's hyperbole, dressed in similes.

Anyway, I found myself suspended inside a frozen moment, everything hanging in the air like a 3D movie on pause. As I considered figures of speech and lamented my likely death, I noticed something interesting about the person who'd shot me. He was an angry-looking chap, hugely tall and dressed in black biking leathers with a bright yellow helmet. The visor was up, and I got a good look at his pained grimace. He'd either gassed himself recently with a particularly potent fart, or he was less than pleased to have shot me.

My thoughts were interrupted by my life flashing before my eyes. Muffled screaming gave way to an unaccustomed light. I saw something nobody should ever have to remember with an adult's eyes, and then felt myself yelling as some git smacked my arse. My first taste of air, and I didn't like it. I put my early life on fast forward, believing there was nothing of note to see, but paused it moments (years) later. There! I was three years old, playing in my paddling pool in the front garden with my similarly aged neighbour. Damn, but the late seventies saw some shocking cruelty done to toddlers in the hair-do department! Anyway, that wasn't why I paused. There, standing in the shadows across the street, was a man. A man in black biking leathers and a yellow helmet with the visor up. They were a little dated by today's standards, but the colour choice alone sent shivers through me. He was gazing at my young self with an expression of longing riddled with unhealthy interest. His mouth moved as he spoke, but I knew not what he uttered.

My life jumped forward a little, and there I was as a young teenager, my hair now an insane mop that no comb could tame nor barber conquer. I was playing 'headers and volleys' with friends at school. I was enjoying the game, watching the football soar above me. I never noticed the man in biking leathers who watched me through the school fence. He was saying something softly as he watched me move.

This went on through memory after memory and I got to flicking through them like photos on a digital camera that all look similar.

Suddenly I was at today, a cop being briefed on an assignment. A local kiddie-fiddler had finally stepped over the mark. A well known stalker, he'd finally succumbed to his urges and attacked a little boy in a playground. I was to find him and bring him in. I'd not known the guy had stalked me all my life, but it seemed fitting that the job fell to me. His house was empty but his credit card had been used to rent a small hotel room. I'd gone there - I'd come here, and the bastard had shot me.

My life finished its playback and I was in that tiny room again, frozen still in a dark moment. Something told me my wound was not as serious as I'd first thought. Perhaps my life replay had over-run a little, just enough to give me a hint that there was more to come.

The man in leathers, middle-aged and (in light of my memories) unmistakably pervy, was stuck in the middle of talking. I knew now what he was saying, pieced together through the succession of memories and his current expression.

He was saying, "I love you."

It occurred to me that this experience, this gaggling congregation of slow-motion thoughts, was like flash fiction. A story told in a flash, or a heartbeat. Years' worth of concepts and occurrences condensed into a single moment. As my life caught up with the present and I felt my body begin to topple, finger grasping at the trigger, eye trained on my target, I composed the flash fiction version of my story in my mind.

I burst into the perp's hotel room and got shot in the back. It hurt, but I survived and solved the case.