"The world has become broken, and I can't find myself among the pieces."
- Anonymous -
The high pitched wailing pierces through the haze currently enveloping his mind, and he distantly wonders why the newly arriving Emergency Services engage their sirens when the real urgency has become a moot point. When there's nothing left to rush to and rescue; when all that's left is bent, scorched metal and smoke.
When there's nothing left but death.
His eyes flicker over the wreck, a detached part of his brain neatly and professionally cataloguing the details of the scene, like gathering the pieces of a puzzle. He takes in the twin rubber tracks leading off the side of the road, the large missing chunks of the trees the car collided with, the torn-up earth where the rear wheels spun madly to get a grip.
And failed.
Distantly he's aware of hands curling into his shoulders, gripping his clothes; arms wrapping themselves around his chest before he is being tugged backwards, realizing that the heat on his face means he's too close to the flames, too close to the smoking metal.
But not close enough to the bloodied arm sticking out of what is left of a door, not nearly close enough to the hand stretched out in a mute plea. He's no longer close enough to reach and touch those fingers, wrap his own around them and pull, and as he watches in horror, the distance between that hand and his own becomes larger and larger.
And in that moment he knows that the wailing sound is not a siren.
It's coming from his own mouth.
When his brain kickstarts again, he finds himself sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair amidst the hustle and bustle of what seems to be the Admittance area of a hospital's Emergency Room, a blanket thrown around his shoulders, numb fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee gone cold. Frowning, he stares down at the black liquid, then slowly looks up at the figures standing around him. People are talking, speaking to him, but their words jumble together into an incoherent verbal stream. He can't make sense of them.
"What?"
One of the figures crouches down to his level, and he realizes it's Chin, his eyes gentle in a drawn and haggard looking face. He blinks at him owlishly, trying to figure out what is going on. Over Chin's right shoulder he can see Kono, standing hunched over in an uncharacteristic slouch, arms wrapped tightly around her waist. He can see she has been crying, and he wants to get up and comfort her, tuck her into his chest and help her cope with what seems to be immeasurable grief. But somehow his legs refuse to straighten, his body a mass of quivers and feeling cold. So cold.
"What?" he asks again, intently staring at Chin just hovering before him, his eyes begging him to try and help make sense of the situation. Frowning again, he watches Chin sigh and briefly close his eyes before looking at him again.
"They want to know if Danny ... if Danny was a donor. Apparently not all his medical records were transferred from Jersey to the Island."
He's turning the question over and over in his mind - why would they ask this? why not ask Danny himself? - when a warm hand is wrapped around his own cold one, and as he looks down he can see the coffee cup trembling violently, causing the liquid to slosh over the edge and stain his pants, joining other stains that appear to be mud, and oil, and ...
Blood. Danny's blood!
His breath stutters to a halt within a suddenly constricted throat, and raw images rush into his head. Images of flames, of twisted metal, of an outstretched hand which he had grabbed and pulled, moaning "Danny, come on. Danny, get out! Danny!" while staring into wide, blue, blue eyes that reflected the orange flames but were empty and unseeing and ...
Jamming a fist against his mouth, he shoots out of the bucket chair, roughly shaking off outstretched hands as he runs for the bathroom next to the reception desk. Once inside a stall, he heaves and heaves and cries, choking on his own bile, his breath rasping, his eyes tearing with the force of his rebelling stomach and overpowering grief.
Danny!After several minutes, he flushes and turns, his back colliding with the side of the stall, and then slides down as his legs once more refuse to bear him. Wrapping his arms around his head, shaking, the knowledge which he has managed to suppress up to that moment settles into his mind and heart with a gut-wrenching finality.
Danny is dead!