016 POV - wake from crash 1175

I feel weightless. Warm. A summer sun beating down. I'm elated. I don't know why? I just feel...

...pure.

I don't know how long I'm like this. Maybe a month, maybe a second. There's no sense of time here. All I know is that the feeling starts to fade and I start to feel something else... 

...terror.

I don't know why I feel the terror. I don't have a rational reason to feel this way. 

Do I?

Snippets of images come back to me. Bright headlights. Spinning cars. Shattered glass. 

Suddenly a deluge of memory returns. I've just crashed my car. Now I know why I feel terror. I try to open my eyes, but I can't. 

Why can't I see? 

I try to move my arms, but they don't seem to want to move. I start to panic, like a child waking in the dark in a foreign room, I want to cry out for help, but for some reason I'm mute. This only causes my panic to rise even more. 

Calm down Susan. Try to stay calm. 

I concentrate on my feet because they're the only things that I can feel. I wiggle my toes, forcing myself to be aware of the sensation of feeling. I try to lift my legs, it's hard as I feel immensely weak, but at least I can move them.

Ok, you can use your legs, now focus on your arms. 

I concentrate on my hands, in particular my fingers. At first there is no connection, but as I continue to visualise my arms, my hands and fingers, I soon gain sensation in my upper extremities. I manage to lift my right arm to my face, where I can feel, something, a liquid?

Why is there a liquid on my face?

I clear the liquid from my eyes and am soon able to see. Perhaps 'see' isn't the right word. This is not what you'd call normal vision, it's not twenty-twenty at all. One-one is more like it. At first it's big blocks of colours that mean nothing. But slowly these blobs form shapes that become recognisable.

I stare at the liquid on my fingers. It's crimson. A deep, rich, crimson. There's a pain on my forehead. I touch it. It hurts more. This is where the blood is coming from. I think?

A swathe of red is spattered across my steering wheel. I must have hit my forehead there. 

I look around myself, I'm in my car. My side window is shattered. The passenger window is too. The windshield is broken in place and more resembles a spiderweb than a sheet of glass. My lap is covered with cubed glass, as is the seat next to me and the floor. Small shattered cubes of glass everywhere.

I become acutely aware of an intense pain across my chest. I also notice that my breathing is shallow. I slowly move my arm and with much effort I manage to release my seatbelt. It does not auto retract. It stays where it is. I gently slide it away from my chest and touch my collar bone. 

Ooooow! That hurts like hell. 

Broken, maybe? I won't know until I get to a hospital. It doesn't feel out of place, maybe it's just fractured?

I notice the flickering of a sodium light in my car. I look around, trying to place its source, but can't for the life of me pin point it. Where the hell is it coming from?

I look up, across the street and realise that the dancing light comes from the flames burning in the black Mercedes that lies overturned about twenty yards away.

The entire cabin is filled with fire. Tendrils of thick black smoke rises up. The stench of burning fabric, rubber and chemicals fills the air. I cough as the acidic concoction burns my throat.

Where is the man? Is he burning? Alive?

At this thought I use all my strength to push open my car door. It doesn't open easily, it takes every ounce of reserve strength I have to force it open. I step out onto the road and use the frame of the door to steady myself as I stand. 

I gasp as I behold the man, lying prone on the road, halfway between our respective cars. He is cut and bloody, but alive and moving. Crawling, slowly. He holds his gun, and the moment he sees me, he lifts it, aiming at me.

I freeze. I daren't even breathe. He's in bad shape, but he he's close enough that should he decide too, it would be an easy shot. I consider diving back into my car for protection, but the look in his eyes says: I will drop you if you move. 

After a moment of tense silence, the man grunts, "Get me in your car."

Fear welds my feet to the ground. The man grunts again, louder this time, "Get me. In. Now!"

I move to him cautiously. My hands raised. He keeps his gun aimed at me as I approach. My every step is slow and considered. Evidently too slow and too considered as he grunts, "Hurry up, stop stalling."

I soon stand over him. Unsure what to do. How to do this. I lean down, hook him under the arms and heave until he rolls over onto his back. He cries out in pain. This is when I see a shard of metal imbedded in his thigh. It's at least ten inches long and about three inches wide. Blood leaking at a rapid rate. 

I reach for it but he knocks my hand away. "Don't touch it, if it's cut an artery and you pull it out I'll bleed out in seconds."

I try to process this, but I have no frame of reference. I have no idea how long it takes to bleed to death when an artery is cut. "Help me up." The man commands. He reaches an arm to me that I take and together, with much effort, we manage to get him vertical.

He slings his arm around my shoulder, which hits my collar bone and sends a lightening strike of pain through my ribcage. I wince as I bare the agony. We both brace for the effort that's to come, then together we shuffle toward the passenger side of my car.

Fortunately the door opens without much effort and the man manages to fall into the seat, biting back the pain of doing so. He uses his hands to lift his wounded leg into the car, he then pulls the door shut. He keeps the gun aimed at me as I return to the driver's seat, get in and close my door. 

I sit quietly, stunned, waiting for my next directive. 

"What are you waiting for? Get this thing started and get us out of here."

I do as I'm told. I try the engine and to my surprise it catches first time. My automatic pilot has me put my seat belt on, then I put the car into gear and start driving. As we pull away, I glance back at the burning Mercedes in my rearview mirror. The flames of the fire raging higher as it completely consumes what remains of the car.