I really shouldn't be writing another when I already have another story out. Ah, well, I like this one.
The last thing he remembered was a bright white light.
A bright white light, and pain.
Pain, racing through his head, his legs, his everything.
He didn't know what to make of it, what had happened. He couldn't remember a thing.
With some effort, he managed to pull his eyes open. For a moment, everything was black. Terrifyingly black, pitch black, the color of death. And he indeed thought that he was dead or dying, in those few horrible seconds before his vision cleared.
When his vision did clear, he thought that maybe this was a fate worse than death.
He was in a car. His car, to be exact. And all he could make out at first was the blood.
It was everywhere. Pouring off of himself, in cracks and crevices all over his once pretty car, and dripping in mounds off of-
Ziva.
Oh, no, Ziva.
Not her. Anybody but her.
Horror washed through him so intensely that for a moment he didn't feel the pain.
She was pressed up against her seat belt, head lolling to the side. Dark red gore poured off of her, in so many places it hurt to look. Her beautiful brown hair was covered in it, and what little he could see of her face was covered in glass.
He could feel the glass embedded in his own face, looking at hers, and it made him sick. He retched violently against the now restraining seat belt, coughing and sputtering, reaching desperately for his buckle the whole time.
When he finally found it, he pressed it without thinking, and he fell with a moan on top of the now deflated airbag, suppressing a cry of pain. He hadn't realized, until that moment, that they were at an angle.
He could vaguely recall the signs of shock setting in over his whole body, but that didn't matter to him. All that mattered was her.
She was unconscious. Dead or unconscious, a pessimistic voice in the back of his head whispered, giving voice to what he had before not aloud himself to think.
He panicked then. She could be dead. What would he do if she was dead? Well, die, certainly.
He made his way over to her as quickly as he could, which wasn't fast at all, and reached two fingers up to her neck to try to find a pulse.
He didn't find much, and what he could make out was faint and weak, slowing down. Her blood circulation slowing to a near stop, his heart rate soaring, his life slowly ending with hers.
And there was nothing he could do.
He had heard somewhere, once, probably in a movie, that there was a difference between crying and weeping. He felt that difference, then. When you weep, you weep with your whole body, your whole soul.
And he wept.