They Look So Pretty When They Bleed
Prompts: #10 blood loss, #13 oxygen mask #25 disorientation
"Sergeant Strike? Strike? Can you hear me? Sergeant Strike?"
A face appears above him, but a sheet has been dropped between him and the world. Everything is muted - sounds, pain, thoughts - and all he can hear is the thrum of his own heartbeat in his ears, and all he can think is: My leg. Something happened to my leg.
But even that thought has little to do with the world or his own body. Someone is still talking to him, and a second face has appeared, mouth moving, not making sense. Hands are on him, on his leg (what happened to his leg?), something clamps around his thigh and, oddly, it feels not like his own thigh. Everything feels a little removed, as if his brain and body have been shaken into incongruence. Overlapping, but no longer one unit.
"Yeah." He answers a question he must have understood but can't remember. All he can remember is a pool of blood and that he's missing a boot.
He sees a tube in his line of vision, dangling from an IV bag, held by someone's hand. It doesn't seem to have anything to do with him.
Fupp - fupp - fupp
Flapping, overhead. Air kicking up sand. A giant insect descending from the sky.
Fupp - fupp - fupp
"Sergeant Strike?"
Yes. That's him. Sergeant Strike. Why do they keep asking?
"...lift you…"
He's airborne for a moment. Hard soil is replaced by something softer underneath him. The sensation of being carried. The shift in position kindles a surge of panic. They can't leave without his...
The thought trails off into a void.
Fupp- fupp - fupp
He's inside a metal belly and jostled about. The whooping sensation of flight. Helicopter.
It's cold, and he's covered in silver foil. A new bag dangles above him, it's contents dark red.
Blood. His leg. A pool of blood.
Something beeps and keeps beeping. Insistent.
"BP's dropping. His saturation is…"
The smell of plastic. A cool hiss as something is pressed over his nose and mouth. He can hear his own breath.
Sky looking through a window. Clouds, reddened and in shreds. Like tissue, like...
Another surge of panic. They're flying; they're leaving. And he doesn't have his boot. They didn't leave it behind, did they? They didn't leave his-
"It's okay, Bluey. It's okay. Shhh..."
Eyes flying open, sheets wet, Strike finds Charlotte at his side. Her arms pull him towards her, her touch reinstating reality. He's breathing hard, and he buries his nose in her hair to chase away the smell of blood.
"It was just a dream, Bluey."
Strike looks down at the foot of the bed. At three legs tangled around each other under the blanket. At the crutches leaning against the wall and the prosthesis glinting in the dark.
It wasn't a dream. It wasn't.