It is 3:42 p.m. on a Thursday when in the aftermath of one of the worst mass killings in the history of Kentucky when a clean up team comes to collect the bodies. Inside there are no survivors. Just 142 massacred bodies. One of the crew, a young fellow, new and not yet hardened to the sight of decapitate mothers and priest with bullets blown through their skulls tying them to the floor; only last ten minutes and three body bags before he has to propel himself out of the splintered church doors to avoid adding another mess to clean.
It's outside hands on his knees, hunched over, panting for fresh air in his lungs when he notices the body on his left. A blonde man in a three piece suit and a smear of blood streaking his forehead in a perfect circle. He's wondering if somehow this one guy managed all that destruction when he notices something through replenishing scenses He almost screams when the corpse chest rises.
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Spots and smudges surround him in blurs. Rushing from side to side, disappearing and popping back up in new places before he can even realize they've gone. For some reason he wants to push back on them and scream. He can barley hold his eyes open though. Its far too loud and far too bright and everything is moving in a way that makes him feel as if he's being tipped over. His eyes begin to close on their own accord but he still hears a distant voice asking "How is this guy still alive?!" Even that is too loud.
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"Miracle…stopped two inches short…blocked…frontal lobe…coma…"
A hand squeezes his through the fog.
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Everything hurts when he opens his eyes. His head, his shoulders, his stomach, his entire damn body hurts. But he's alive. At least he's 97% sure that he's alive. A heart monitor wouldn't be humming happily next to him if he wasn't.
Slowly he pushes back the glue holding his eyes shut and blinks back against the blinding lights overhead. Yes, he's definitely alive. And he's in a hospital. There is indeed a heart monitor humming contently beside him, next to it an IV stand stood with two bags of clear liquid hooked to it. A drop of unidentified solution dripping out and through a thin tube that hooked into the skin on the back of his hand.
Wait, he notices as he lifts his hand that its too light.
Or rather his right hand was too heavy. He looks down, there's a boy sitting by his bed. Head buried in the white sheets with the rest of his lanky body is laid out in a cheap wooden hospital chair in angles that look anything but comfortable. The young boy is dressed like a professional in a black suit that if worn correctly could be dashing. But the jacket was tossed over the back of the chair, the vest missing, and his shirt was unbuttoned and twisted around.
He was squeezing his hand in his own.
Hesitantly, he squeezed back. The pressure had the desired effect, the young man shot up in his chair like a bullet out of a chamber making the man on the bed wince. And what an odd choice of words he noted. The suited gent twisted his head around with a shake, eyes traveling the room before finally settling on him. He had green eyes.
They were wide and wet and beautifully full of emotions that were too frightening and intimate for him to study, even as they bore into him. Leaving him no choice but to avert his own gaze to the bed. "Harry." The young man breathed out gently. When the older man looked back at his companion he found green eyes staring into him as if they knew him and were for some reason afraid he would disappear. But he wasn't sure why. He knew he must know this green eyed boy but he didn't know how. He didn't know his name. He didn't know how he got here, or why. And he didn't know
"Who's Harry?"
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"What all do you remember ?" The doctor, a red headed man with a deep voice that seemed the perfect cocktail of sternness and concern ask him; holding his clipboard close to his chest. Harry, as he is now being told is his name, glances over at the other residents of the room. The bald man who introduced himself as Merlin stands next to the doctor encase they need to speak in hushed tones again, watching him with gentle eyes. The young lady; Miss. Roxanne he believes her name is; who came running in after the suited boy started yelling hysterically stationed herself in the corner.
Her arms were still wrapped firmly around the suited boy, Eggsy. His name was Eggsy. He had continued to scream that repeatedly once Harry inquired as to who he was. Just like he had yelled about his own name being Harry and that he drank coffee with pretentious names, that he had a stuffed dog, that he slept with the fan on, and that he was suppose to be dead. Now he remained noiselessly leaning against the wall with Roxy while she squeezed his body between her arms like a mother would her frightened child. He looked between all of their expecting eyes, all filled with hope and dread and lingered excitement. He caught the tears gleaming in Eggsy's eyes last.
"Not much, Doctor Warren."