Hello guys. This is the longest thing I've written in quite awhile. Hopefully I'll manage to go somewhere interesting with it, but I think it's rather enjoyable thus far. Let me know your thoughts yeah? What do you think of the Campbell attitude? Hmm? I don't think it gets more angsty and sassy than this. Enjoy! PS - The title is only a hint as for what's to hopefully come. Could not have done this without the help of my best friends Kyle and Jess. So thanks to them, as well as a disclaimer: I don't own Skins.

They say your life will flash before your eyes right before you die. What a load of fucking bollocks that is. I mean seriously, not a single God damn memory crossed my mind. No, really. The only fucking semi-coherent thing I thought of was, "Holy fuck, this is going to hurt." Mind you, there was a train coming at me, full speed, in the middle of fucking nowhere, and I had no intention of moving. There were no second thoughts despite what you may expect. I desperately wanted to die until I didn't. I suppose that would make more sense if I elaborated. Perhap I should give you a better picture of everything.

First thing's first, my full name is Naomi Campbell, and honestly I'm rather boring, as if being named after the laughingstock of a celebrity was not enough to destine me for unhappiness. As for a bit of background information, my father bunked off when I was little for some mistress in the States. My mother is a hippie, which would be quite alright if she were not simultaneously a communal living enthusiast. I'm pretty sure there are at least five bums that all look like Jesus living in the rackety piece of cemented wood and brick we call home. Then there are my friends - oh wait, there are none of those, silly me, I must be a total prick. Really, all that has kept me going this long was school. To say I was a good student would be an understatement. I was the best of the best, absolute top of the class. But for what? A golden sticker and short-lived fuzzy feeling at the end of the day for a job well done? Not bloody worth it.

Of course, I imagine you're wondering, what's the straw that broke the camel's back? What really pushed me over the edge? Was it the morning I woke up with a stranger's dirty toe in my mouth? Was it the time my mother could not even name when asked, the screaming baby living in our house that kept us up for a week straight until its teeth grew in? Was it the day the final episode of Big Brother was on and someone had obviously stolen my TV? No, no. I could manage the communal living, the total cow that was my mother and the complete absence of my father. The thing that really stuck it to me though, that really truly eliminated any remaining substantial point to life, was my very first failing grade.

Okay, okay, so I was being a little dramatic. Remember, this was about an accumulation of everything over time, not just one event. But I mean, that giant red, circled 'F' at the top of my paper really did fuck me up. I had spent hours, no, days, researching the political activism of youth in Bristol. I handed out surveys, attempted interviews, and even joined a few student groups myself. What I discovered was really depressing. Apart from the few people in the coalitions, absolutely no one gave a fuck about political activism or helping me with my assignment. Several of the surveys were returned with vulgar insults sprawled across their entirety while the rest were completely blank. The very basis on which my piece was dependent was practically nonexistent.

I personally thought I deserved a perfect score for my pure honesty and bluntness, if ignoring the professor's journaling guidelines was acceptable. There was never a chance that I would bullshit some happy piece based on lies and sacrifice my integrity when I haven't had to thus far. Perhaps you would like to read an excerpt: "Who cares whether the increased outsourcing is eliminating jobs for loyal locals such as our parents? Who cares whether the drunk girl gets gang-raped by the football team at a party? Who cares whether people adopt or fetishize parts of other cultures for their own lives? Who cares whether we impose our culture and beliefs on developing nations? Who cares whether corporations are able to use loopholes in the tax law to pay less into the system? If nobody in the upcoming generation gives a damn about anything important, why the fuck should I bother writing about it?"

That earned me a nice bold text below the grade: "please see me after class," underlined twice as though my professor needed to emphasize his concern for my sanity. The actual discussion was not as bad as I had expected it to go. He merely suggested I start seeing a therapist and I suggested he go fuck himself in the ass with his red fail grade marker. He then suggested a few specific therapists and counselors and then I told him that one marker might not be enough. Safe to say that although I was once his star pupil, my antics thereafter were enough to have me escorted off the premises. If you must know, I may or may not have threatened and come close to punching his lights out for daring to question the emotional stability of a woman, such as myself. Now that I reflect upon the ordeal, I give him credit for not shitting himself. I can be quite scary when I believe that rights, mine or anyone else's, are being frowned upon.

Then again, I should probably admit that in all actuality it was quite obvious that I would get a miserable grade for writing an irreverent tirade in total anger and frustration. I should also probably acknowledge that I was being an illogical radical feminist for disregarding all my violent and disrespectful behavior by ultimately accusing the professor of being a misogynist as a summation of the confrontation. I suppose I have a lot of pent up anger, and in that moment, it felt as though there were no better time to release it all, appropriate or not. I guess I should be thankful they only gave me a week's suspension, but at my college, it only takes a week of missing the intensive coursework to seal your fate as a failure.

When I arrived home that day I explained to my mum that I would be home for awhile. I didn't want to forsake my pride by telling her what happened with the professor so I told her that it was spring break. With all the chaos of communal living, my mum, Gina, didn't have much time to calculate the details of my whereabouts and school schedule anyway, so she accepted my explanation with no hesitation. Her only response was that, "a little time off should do you some good. You've seemingly been under a lot of stress lately."

Frankly, that pissed me off. I don't know why everyone was set on believing I even needed "some good" or time off, and the idea that she was even paying that close attention to me when she had at least ten other unknown housemates by now seemed like a total lie.

Already by the second day of forcibly spending time at home, I realized how much I had depended on college for being an escape from it all. That's when I had my first and last serious fight with Gina. "It's either these random people or me." She was quiet at first, seemingly calculating her decision. Shocked, I shouted, "Mum! I'm your fucking daughter for Christ's sake!" Finally she said in her annoyingly usual calm tone, "Naomi, there's no need for rash ultimatums." "You've got to be fucking kidding me. They don't even pay rent!" "Neither do you, love," she retorted. I was sure there was smoke coming out of my ears, I was so angry. "You're a total fucking cow and I hate you." I ran up the stairs to my bedroom and slammed the door shut. Thank goodness none of the strangers wandered in there while I was downstairs, or I feel I would have committed murder.

I remember staring at myself in the mirror above my dresser for a bit, totally blank-minded when the tears started pouring out. I kind of threw a tantrum comparable to a three year old's but more destructive. I broke a lamp, tossed my coursework onto the floor, pulled all my clothes off the hangers, and threw some books at the walls, until I collapsed, screaming into my pillows. Nobody cared about anything, about me. Out of sheer emotional exhaustion, I fell asleep.

When I woke up I felt as though my body were on autopilot. I just grabbed my iPod, placing the earbuds inside of my ears, and played The XX's albums. I got dressed in a clean pair of skinny jeans, a black vest top, and an old grey zip-up hoodie. Reaching into the back of my closet I took the bottle I found there and put it in a backpack slung over my shoulders. Then, ignoring my surroundings, I practically skipped down the stairs and out the front door toward the garage and hopped on my bike. My feet started pedaling but I wasn't sure of my destination. I just kept pedaling. I may have even laughed and smiled to myself a little. I was feeling more happy and excited than I had felt in a long time. Maybe it was relief that I was feeling. I'm not sure, it was so unfamiliar, but it was amazing.

I'm not sure how long I had biked, but it was definitely over an hour. Whenever my legs started feeling wobbly I just pressed my feet harder toward the ground. Adrenaline was pulsing through my veins and giving me the extra strength. I was slender, but not all that fit, never really exercising enough to build any muscle. When I finally stopped biking, I was in the middle of nowhere. There were sparse trees here and there, a few houses in the distance, and train tracks. Perfect. The skies were just beginning to darken. I pulled the bottle out of my bag and admired the label. Smirnoff: Triple Distilled for Purity. Premium Vodka. I untwisted the cap and took a hearty swig, cringing at the awful taste as the burning sensation hit my throat.

I was on my way to being properly drunk when I felt the ground beneath me start to tremble. I looked in both directions until the sound of train whistles guided me to the left. Before I could even figure out what exactly I was doing, I had abandoned my stuff and stood myself in the center of the tracks. Honestly, the plan was to drink myself to death, but I had heard stories of people vomiting themselves back to life. This was going to be foolproof. "Holy fuck, this is going to hurt," I thought out loud. I could see the train lights coming in my direction and hear the sound of it speedily rustling on the tracks, while obnoxiously continuing to whistle. It was dark now, so there would be no chance of them noticing me, at least not until I was hit. I decided to close my eyes and count to ten. Shouldn't take longer than that, I thought.

Of course, ten seconds later, I opened my eyes, startled to see I was about to be hit. There was no time to curse myself for miscalculating how long the whole procedure would take. It sounded like a thousand fireworks going off simultaneously as the metal front crashed into my body. I'm not sure if it actually made that sound or whether I imagined it. But as my body started to fly away my eyes wandered around me. They had already adjusted to the minimal lighting, able to focus on the rooftops. I knew I was relatively high up in the sky. I thought my mind would have shut down by now. Maybe you get to watch yourself die? I'm not sure. But I felt a rush of air as I started to fall down.

I didn't even scream, I don't think I could have if I tried. There seemed to be a block between my brain and my vocal chords. I started choking on the cloud of dust that formed as I crashed into the dirt. I wondered if all my bones were broken. At that point I was terrified that I was still alive and would have to live through the suffering for a while longer.

I closed my eyes and tried to relax. I was breathing. That was for sure. I started from the bottom of my body, wiggling my toes, bending my knees, lifting my hips, bending my elbows, flexing my stomach, rolling my shoulders, and turning my neck. Why was everything functioning just fine? Was it the alcohol? I was genuinely confused. I had just been hit by two hundred tons at mass speed. What the actual fuck? Shouldn't I be off floating in the sky now, angel wings and all?

That's when the head throbbing began. I was most definitely alive. What happened next assured me more than anything. "Oh my fookin' god," someone shouted nearby. Good job, Naomi, can't even kill yourself properly, I thought. What an utter failure.

"Are you alright?" It was a guy's voice. "I mean, I know that's a dumb question to ask for someone that's been hit by a train, but you seemed to be squirming around on the ground there just fine."

I opened my eyes. Hovering over me was a lad with shaggy light brown hair and blue eyes. His eyebrows were furrowed in concern. "I said, are you alright?"

I pushed myself up onto my elbows and observed my fully intact body. I felt rather sober too. "Yeah, I think I am."

His face broke out into a toothy grin. "Bloody brilliant. I swear you nearly touched the fuckin' moon. You got some serious air, man." Who the hell is this guy and where did he come from, I wondered. Apparently I had said that out loud too. "I'm James, but everyone calls me Cook. I hopped off the back of the train when I saw your pretty little body do a better flip than an Olympian."

"This can't be happening. I'm supposed to be dead!" I shouted. I started panicking. I immediately got up and started searching for where I had left my belongings. Cook processed what I had just said before quickly turning on his feet and following me.

"Wait up Blondie, you mean to say you did that on purpose?"

"Yeah." I sighed.

"Fucked that up, didn't you?" He chuckled.

"What do you want? Why are you following me?" I stopped and turned to face him angrily.

"Nothing, just lookin' for a bit of fun." His eyes moved past me. "Seems I've found what I'm lookin' for." He ran ahead of me and grabbed the bottle of Smirnoff I had left earlier.

"Hey! That's mine!"

"Aw, care to share?"

I folded my arms. "Why should I?"

"Well for one, I've got the bottle and you don't... and you seem like you could use a bit of fun."

"Why does everyone keep telling me what I need? I'm fucking fine!"

"Blondie, you just tried killing yourself. How fine can you possibly be?" He waved the bottle in front of me, "Come onnn, what have you got to lose?" I chewed my lip thoughtfully. At this point, I had nothing to lose by hanging out with this stranger.

"Alright, Cook. You can have a sip."

"Just a sip?"

"Just a sip." I smiled.

The sun was rising and we were properly drunk. Cook had certainly taken more than a sip, as had I. We didn't talk very much, just broke out into hysterical laughter every now and then, which I was more than okay with. Out of the blue though, I decided to ask a question. "Cook?"

"Ready for that shag now?" He semi-joked.

"Fuck off." I laughed.

"What is it, Blondie?" He looked at me.

"I got hit by a train. Why didn't I die, let alone get hurt?"

"I don't know. Maybe you're... invincible."

"No, seriously." I groaned.

"I'm bloody serious. There's no way you could have got hit by a train and survived that fall if you weren't."

I gave it some thought. He was right. I mean there was no rational explanation for what could have happened. I briefly wondered if I was dreaming but a self-inflected bite to the cheek a bit harder than necessary proved I was wide awake. "I can't be. That's just ridiculous."

"Well, how many times have you tried to off yourself?"

"Just the once. You're not suggesting I try again, are you?"

"No, no, of course not... But I mean, if you were invincible, that would be pretty cool."

"You're drunk."

"So are you."

"Maybe, but not enough."

"Did it hurt?"

"No."

"Then what have you got to lose?"

"Nothing, I suppose," I said sadly thinking about all the reasons I had tried the first time.

"So...?"

"Alright, alright. Just pass the rest of the vodka here, yeah?"

We sat in silence, as I drank and waited for the next train. We felt the ground start to shake and that's when I resumed my position on the tracks. I was beyond party drunk, barely able to stay steady or even stand. I knew the train would see me this time, not that it made any difference to me. I would most likely be dead. I mean the odds of me being invincible were pretty insignificant, right? The train started whistling at maximum volume. I could tell the conductor was trying to slow down when he realized I wasn't planning on moving, but there was not enough time or traction to hit me much slower than normal. I glanced at Cook who was hiding behind some trees as though there was going to be an explosion of some sort. Although, he suddenly started running and yelling at me, I think he was telling me to get off the tracks but I couldn't hear him over the train squealing on the tracks as it neared. I didn't want to move anyway. I felt confident about dying this time around. I was unhappy with my life and this was going to end everything.

When Cook was around twenty steps away, the train collided with me. It wasn't really colliding with me though; it was more like punting me as though I was a pathetic little football, into the sky. It was not long before I was lying on the ground again, face up, limbs sprawled out. My eyes were closed throughout the scary ordeal. I'm not sure exactly how fast I had been falling before I hit the floor but it was damn fast. I think I lost consciousness briefly before I heard more shouting.

"Blondie! Blondie! Come on, wake up!"

I blinked my eyes rapidly until everything came into focus again. I'm alive. Again.

"Told you so. I knew you were invincible," he smiled.

"Fuck off," I said playfully. I started remembering right before the crash. "Wait a second, you didn't really think I was invincible. You were telling me to get off the tracks. You didn't know shit."

"I uh, didn't want to take any chances."

"Bullshit." I then noticed Cook looking around, toward the front of the train where it had just come to a stop.

"Looks like we've got to skedaddle, Blondie. The people are gettin' a bit curious."

I looked to where he was looking and saw a bunch of train staff running in our direction. "Yes, I think that's a good idea. My bike is over there." I pointed. He lifted me up to my feet and we started running. Little did I know the adventure that was about to begin.