Locked Wheels

Prologue: Of Fire, Blood, Brimstone

Dave stared at the wall, eyes red and unfocused, tears drying sticky on his cheeks. He'd only just stopped a few minutes ago, the steady flow of hot tears halting nearly as suddenly as they had begun. Now, he sank slowly into silence and deep, pressing darkness. He'd been drifting numbly between the two states—so overwhelmed he could not breath, so numb he could not see—for the past week now.

He could still hear it, the sound of metal gouging metal—loud, like a bomb—the screech of tires on asphalt, the airbags deploying. A scream. Dirk's. His own. And then, the smell. Gasoline. Flame. Melted rubber. Dirt. Blood. He was upside down. Something was dripping furiously onto him; something else was clamped too firmly across his waist. He couldn't move anything from the hips down. He tried to wiggle, get a foot, a leg free, unbuckle himself, but he couldn't. He couldn't move. He couldn't do anything.

All he could do was watch.

Dave pressed his face into his hands. He heaved in a slow, tight breath, chest heaving with the effort of expanding his cold lungs. He exhaled, let the air out a soft, trembling sigh and pushed a hand through his hair. He heard the door open, softly. Gentle footsteps on the cold linoleum. He tensed automatically.

He had pushed against the dashboard as hard as he could before something pulled in his arm and he had to stop. He sat back, breathing hard. Something ran into his eye. Everything was red. Everything was hot and smelled like smoke. No. He wasn't upside down. Not all the way. Almost. Close enough.

"Dirk," he'd croaked hoarsely. "Dirk, I can't... I can't move. I don't... I don't know what's happening, I can't..." He'd looked up at his brother. "Dirk?"

"Dave?" The voice was soft. Everyone spoke to him softly now. He'd once had a panic attack when something fell in the hallway. A lot of things gave him panic attacks now. Heat, the smell of smoke, the sound of metal, loud noises. His own body.

Dirk hadn't responding, no matter how insistently Dave cried his name. He'd tried to reach out and touch him, jostle him awake or alert, but he couldn't lean too far to any one side without a fiery pain racing up his side. He pushed gently against the dashboard again, panting softly, tears stinging in his eyes. Sweat ran down his face and he felt something on his cheek sting; when he reached to touch it, his fingers felt a small shard of something hard stuck into a hot, wide gash. A soft hiss curled automatically from him. His fingers came away slick and red. He tried to move his foot, to push back against the floor of the car, wrench himself free to get up and go look for help, but nothing happened.

Nothing at all.

"Dave, are you... Are you ready now?"

Dave didn't respond. Fresh tears welled in his eyes, threatening to flow down his cheeks again.

"Dave, you can't keep disappearing like this. You can't run away and sulk like this. You have to..." The person sighed. "It's hard, I know, but you have to... You have to try and move on."

Move on. Right. How was he supposed to move on when he could barely even move?

Dave had pushed against the dashboard again and again, tears streaking down his cheeks and blazing when they ran into his cut, desperately trying to move his legs. He was panicking now, his breath coming hard and shallow. Dirk shifted beside him and groaned softly. It was the first sound he'd made since all this happened. Dave was relieved—he had been starting to think he was dead—but he was too distraught over his legs to revel.

"D-dirk, I can't," Dave gasped fearfully, "I-I can't move my legs. I don't— I d-don't know what's wrong, I just— I c-can't—" Dave curled his hands into fists and hit them weakly against the dashboard. "I can't... I... Help me... Please... I need you to help me..."