Speaking of falling asleep, is it maybe possible to doze off in this godforsaken place without waking up to a strongly-worded note? Apparently not, because according to this new slice of passive-aggressive bullshit, my last few submissions havn't been 'specific' enough.
Right.
Well don't worry, Whatever-The-Fuck-Your-Name-Is from record-keeping; the next time I get in a car crash, I'll bring a little notebook with me and-while barrel-rolling towards certain death-document the time of day, what the weather was like, and just how many go-rounds it took for me to come to a complete stop. Could I also interest you in the blood type of a distant cousin, or perhaps my favorite color when I was four?
If you seriously don't believe me (or are plagued with the irksome habit of just needing to see things for yourself) I'm sure that there's more than enough blood, sweat, and tears left behind by yours truly to play Hansel and Gretel with, so knock yourselves out. In the meantime, here's a few things that I do remember in vivid detail:
I woke up to the taste of blood and the pleasant sensation of a shoulder being dislocated, the latter of which sounded a whole lot like a champagne bottle, only it was popping in the socket of my arm and muffled under layers of tissue and skin. The car was on fire and flipped on its roof, and Miles and I were hanging ever so comfortably upside down, those lifesaving things called 'seatbelts' making sure we didn't do anything silly, like leave. An icy drizzle had started during our nap, but as the packhorse had come to a stop inside the awning of a decrepit storefront, Mother Nature would be unable to help douse the flames that were already threatening to cook us alive.
Would our hero be able to free himself in time?!
.
There. That an exciting enough narrative for you, Janice? Well stay tuned, you won't believe what happens next.
...Except maybe you will, if I've painted an accurate enough picture of Miles. Here, I'll add another detail for you: He was an asshole.
My vision was fractured into thirds, and I couldn't form words outside a jumble of consonnents that was meant to sound like 'fuck' or something similar. My knife-a typically loyal companion that had fallen into treachery during our tumble-lay just within Miles' reach and painfully out of mine. Completely aware of what was going on, I felt like a spectator behind the eyes of a different human being, watching panicked and helpless as Miles came to himself and reached for the blade.
But why the unease, Damon? Your comrade has the knife, he will be able to free himself, and then you!
Well shit, that really would have been nice.
See Miles, he began sawing away at his seatbelt with a type of hectic composure that really would have benefited us earlier. Maybe the ten or so years between us really did make a difference in terms of vitality, or maybe I just hit my head harder than he did. Either way, all I could do was watch it happen in slow motion; him falling down onto the roof of the truck, him kicking the passenger-side door out. Him saying some last words that I couldn't make out above the ringing in my head.
Him, leaving me, taking the knife right along without a second thought.
It occured to me, then, that I'd been trying out 'optimism' like sugar-free ice cream; hesitantly, and with very low expectations. Why it took being left behind in a burning vehicle to finally realize just how shitty it all tasted, though, is beyond me. I've come to the conclusion that I won't be making healthy choices anymore, despite well-meaning suggestions from nutritional facts and also my therapist.
The flames got hotter, and the smoke got thicker, and, making good on his namesake, Miles ran further and further away. By the time I actually managed to yell after him, he was in the middle of the street. He looked back and then kept going, and my heart sunk.
I could've pretended that he didn't hear me, if he hadn't looked back.
Desperate, I tried one more time. If I blinked, I would've missed the Reaver swoop down, not even touching the ground as it snatched Private Miles and then sailed off into oblivion to the sound of their combined screams. Gone, just like that.
The silence that followed their echo was almost worse than the haunting echo itself.
Something other than physical discomfort gripped my spine in that moment, because all of a sudden, I was alone. Never one to downplay the importance of solitude, let me clarify that there is a difference between chosen seclusion and flat out isolation:
My dad had dogs when I was younger, creatures as severe and standoffish as the old man himself. They were never pets, but I can still remember a few different times when the house was quiet, my parents gone and the maids and nannies too occupied with their own short reprieve to bother with canines or nasty twelve-year-old boys. Eventually, one of those dogs would sit across the room from me, and I'd look at it, and it'd look at me, and we'd resign ourselves to the fact that silently hating each other was better than nothing.
Of course, I couldn't foresee the company I was about to receive some short minutes later, or just how much it'd remind me of those times with the dogs; the nostalgia of it all would settle in my chest as the day wore on; that begrudging camaraderie, wildly irritating and necessary.
The flames grew, and I realized it didn't matter whether or not I was alone, not right then and there. My legs already had a tan that could make certain politicians jealous, and the lack of oxygen caused by smoke was lulling me into what felt like an anxious (if not permanent) sleep. With my left hand I reached up and felt along my toolbelt-what used to be an impressive assortment of gadgets had dwindled to a single screwdriver. It was my favorite, blue with a chip in the handle, one that had been used to save my squads' collective ass on more than one occasion. (These are details, and I've been told that they're important.)
Without much thought, I jammed the screwdriver into the release of my seatbelt, jimmying it beside the buckle and praying to whatever entity would listen that I'd free myself in time.
Nothing happened except that I managed to fall into a coughing fit, ushering more and more smoke into my lungs with every ragged inhale.
After one full minute, panic took over, a feeling I'd been numb to for the past year or so. Cole had this notion it was because of Delta; that nothing bad could happen to the four of us as long as we were together, or some romantic shit like that. He began referring to it as an immortality vibe, at which point I told him that that was a stupid name for self-confidence.
Of course I would see the error of my ways while dying, scared and alone, as one tends to do. Not that I would ever say so to any of their faces, not even Cole. I'd also like to remind you that this is a confidential document, so no sharing.
Fortunately, the screwdriver managed to pry down the spring of the seat buckle about fourteen seconds later, just as I was slipping out of consciousness. Unfortunately, the sudden release didn't grant my disjointed mind any decent ideas about how to fall; I went head-first, and if my shoulder wasn't dislocated before, it was then, most certainly.
After that; the crawl to freedom is a segmented memory broken up by pain and oxygen-deprivation. One minute, I was curled in the fetal position inside of the smoldering car, the next I was curled in the fetal position just outside of it, taking deep breaths and trying not to vomit. Those lapses continued all the way down the block, where I somehow managed to drag myself to a little building situated on the corner of I Really Didn't Bother Looking for Street Signs and So Go Fuck Yourself, Janis.
Eventually I wound up inside, where it was dark and fairly dry and comforting in a way that it probably wouldn't have been under any other circumstances. The one good thing about desperation is that it makes you see an opportunity in everything else. Comparatively, you're so blind with wanting a good outcome, you can never really know if those opportunities are good for you. For example:
"In a significant amount of pain, the mechanic was desperate to relocate his shoulder. Blind with wanting a good outcome, he decided to set it himself."
Can anyone tell me why that wasn't a good idea? Because moving a dislocated joint without professional help can result in muscle, ligament and nerve damage? Because it's almost impossible to do on your own? Egotistical? Just plain dumb? Very good, class.
In my defense, I'd gone from actively dying to actively not in a matter of a few minutes, and was in the shaky end-stages of an adrenaline rush. I wasn't in my right mind, how could I be? Really, I blame that nameless action movie I saw when I was twelve; the one where the cop dislocates his own shoulder to escape a straight-jacket to win a bet, and then sets it by slamming it against a wall?
Yeah, it took about three agonizing collisions with the doorframe for me to remember why I don't like fiction: whereas the cop gathered up his winnings to the shock and awe of his coworkers, I'd bitten through my tongue trying not to scream. Because I'm nothing if not stubborn, one last try sent me to the floor, breaths shallow and pride decimated. That was that.
I laid there for what was probably the better part of an hour, once again slipping between different stages of wakefulness. If this whole sleeping beauty routine is getting boring, don't worry; I didn't get any more rest after she showed up.
Not a bit.
She showed up. She. Her. The little devil that nearly got me killed. We met during a failed burglary attempt, but don't let that make too much of a shitty first impression. She also kind of saved my life.
As you might have guessed, she was the offspring of Stranded, most of which tend to behave only slightly better than sheep. I don't blame them; the little mites don't know any better, they never have and they probably never will. The worst I've ever had to deal with from a Stranded younger than fifteen is insulting language or the occasional guilt-trip scripted by their parents. As you might've guessed, I've looked at it with a 'sticks and stones' mentality.
This one decided to forgo sticks and stones altogether, and skip straight to fists.
That's right, after snagging one of my most cherished possessions, she hit me in the face and then hit the road. Charming, right? Not much of a sheep, I admit. But I don't think calling her a more appropriate animal name would be very...well, appropriate.
