It was astonishing how quickly everything could change, how quickly a perfectly ordinary day can turn to one of heartbreak and tragedy.
A sightseeing ride in an automobile could end in a firey and fatal crash.
A lovely walk down to the nearby park could end with your wallet and keys missing, along with the haunting imprint of a gun's muzzle left in the back of your coat.
A peaceful train ride could turn to a fatal tragedy in a mere moment, faster than you can even interpret what had happened.
Paul Orlac was currently experiencing that third scenario, of a train ride becoming a nightmare in a mere moment. He had been on the train back home and his mind had been preoccupied with the thoughts of his sweet and beautiful Yvonne. He had spent the entirety of his time away dreaming of seeing her once again when they reunited at the train station in a mere few hours, he dreamed of holding her and running his hands through her soft and silky hair once more. He would play the piano for her and watch her smile as he did, the soft notes of music swirling around them as she laughed and giggled as he grinned from his spot beside her on the piano bench.
Paul had been softly smiling at the thought of seeing his love in just a short amount of time when the train had shook violently and then in the next moment, before he could even begin to register what had occurred, the train was listing over onto it's side with a cacophony of metal shrieking and people screaming sounding all along it's length, children crying and adults shouting in terror, and then the train crashed to it's side with a deafening sound, sending anything unsecured flying. Paul was instantly sent flying to the floor, his skull cracking against the unforgiving surface, and was half-buried in the shifting debris from the crash before he could right himself.
He was currently lying laid out on his stomach, his bloodied arms and hands cast out in front of him, everything below his waist hidden from sight and pinned by the crushed and bent steel frame of the train, loose luggage and decor scattered about his form, his blood splattered across some of them.
His fingers were bent awkwardly, unnaturally, clearly broken. His head throbbed and ached, and his hair was wet with blood, which trickled down his face from a wound somewhere beneath his hair and dripped steadily onto the debris he was lying amongst.
It was dark, Paul's only way of seeing was from the bright light of the moon seeping through the broken windows and ripped away panels, as well as the flashes of lights that would linger for only a second before moving on, the sources of the lights not spotting Paul's crumpled body that was hidden in the shadows. The portion of night sky that was visible from where Paul lay was pitch-black with no visible stars, the only light being from the orange haze of fire and smoke drifting through the air. The screams and moans of the victims of the crash filled the air around Paul, as well as the calls of what he presumed to be search parties. Searchlights were sweeping the scene, glinting off the remnants of glass in the shattered windows that lie above Paul's head.
Paul found himself unable to care about calling out, unable to care about getting a search team to him, as he was unable to think about anything except what he had realized ever since he regained consciousness after the crash.
He couldn't feel or move his hands.
He couldn't feel or move his fingers.
"No..." Paul moaned, his voice hoarse and immediately fading away to nothingness as it escaped his throat, his body trembling as he tried to move his limbs, "it's broken. It's just broken, not..."
He couldn't feel his fingers.
His hands were his life, and they were dying right in front of him.
As he tried to urge his fingers to mimic what they knew best, picturing the white and black dancefloor that was the piano keys his fingers knew intimately, his pale digits remained still and unmoving. As he numbly stared at his still and bloodied fingers, Paul wondered if he would ever play the piano again, is his fingers would ever lithely dance across the pearl and obsidian keys to create such beautiful music that had called hundreds to his concerts, that had afforded the lavish life he lived.
His career would be over. His life would be over. He would be unable to hold and dance with his Yvonne, unable to feel her soft and luscious hair, her smooth skin, he would be unable to provide for her, unable to afford their lifestyle.
He would be unable to do anything at all, without the use of his hands.
Blood was pooling below him, creating a rather uncomfortable situation to lie in, but Paul couldn't tear his eyes away from his unnervingly still hands. His hands were never still. He was always drumming them against something or miming playing the piano keys he had memorized perfectly in order to keep his mind entertained. He was growing tired and cold but while the rest of him trembled and shook - his fingers remained stiller than than the heartbeat of a dead man.
Paul's eyelids dipped low, and even as he fought to open them again Paul idly wondered if he wanted to wake up again. He couldn't feel his hands, the rest of his body was in agony, would it be better if he just... drifted off? The sound of shifting debris and a shout kept Paul awake for another moment, but only for a brief moment. As his consciousness faded, as he was uncertain of if he was imagining his sweet Yvonne's face or if she was truly there, Paul briefly wondered if it was a blessing or a curse that he was found before his life slipped away.
Was he anything without the use of his hands?