Greg swam through interminable darkness. He wasn't dead, he could tell, but what awaited him when he woke up wasn't something he wanted to think about. Not again, at least. The scars would be familiar, the pain of healing still more. Sensation came back to him gradually until he once again resided in the space behind his closed lids. Under his fingers he could feel the smooth cotton of sheets and the familiar lethargy of hospital drugs trapping his body.
Truth be told, Greg was afraid to open his eyes. It was too much to hope that he'd be so lucky to escape unscathed a second time. As if the agony of watching your skin knit itself back together could leave one without mental scars. Still, Greg had an excellent idea of how badly it could have gone. He'd seen the bodies, seen the evidence enough times. He wondered how he looked. Was he in the burn ward? Swathed in bandages, like that woman who'd been incinerated almost to death. Maybe he was paralyzed...
This self pity is unbecoming, he mused drowsily. You're better than this, Sanders. But he was just so tired of being in hospitals. Greg stopped fighting his rising consciousness and allowed his eyes to flutter open.
He found himself on his side. In terms of agony he'd probably spent the equivalent of two lifetimes in that position. The room was dark and quiet and he blinked his eyes sluggishly. As before he couldn't feel his back, but this time the numbness extended down to his legs and all along his arms, which were both in casts. Greg stared ahead, trying to get used to the strange half-deadened feeling of being injured again, but he couldn't sustain his thoughts. It wasn't long before the drugs pulled him under again.
