Locked Wheels

Prologue: Of Fire, Blood, Brimstone

"Dave, c'mon. Please. Let me help you. Let us help you. You don't have do this alone, we're—"

"Shut up," Dave muttered, his voice tight and trembling with anger.

"Dave, please. You can't do this on your own fore—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Dave could hear the distant sound of sirens over the roar of the flames, faint but getting louder. He looked over at Dirk. He was slowly coming to, stirring and groaning slowly. He had a deep cut across his forehead, the kind that would probably need stitches, bleeding all the way down to his chin, and the window on his side had shattered and there were now several shards buried in his face.

"D... Dave?" Dirk said softly. As he tried to turn his head, he grimaced and grabbed at his left shoulder. "Shit!"

"Dirk, please, I can't—" Dave whimpered. "I can't move my legs, I don't know what to— Oh, god I can't even feel them, I think... P-please, help me..."

Dirk furrowed his eyebrows. "What? You can't—? What do you mean?" He looked at him carefully, so as not to move his head, eyes straining to look at Dave's lap. "You can't...?"

Dave shook his head, eyebrows knit in worry. "No."

"Dave, look at me." Dave kept his face down as Dirk walked around to face him. Dave glanced at him and grimaced slightly. The bruises on his face were finally starting to fade, but the cuts under his left eye were still raw and red. The laceration on above his eyebrow was under a thick layer of gauze, but Dave could still remember what it looked like. How wide it was, how much it bled. He'd been shocked; he hadn't ever seen anything bleed with such fury for so long. He almost couldn't believe there was even that much blood in anyone's body. He'd been wrong, evidently; the gash in his own thigh that didn't stop bleeding for half an hour confirmed it.

Not that he felt it.

"Hey, hey, hey, i-it's ok," Dirk said quickly. His voice was a terrified, jittery thing that Dave could tell Dirk had to wrench back to calmness. "Don't... don't worry. Look, th... th-the ambulance are almost here. You're gonna be fine. We're gonna be fine." Dirk shifted and hissed, grabbing at his arm again and squeezing his eyes shut. He panted through the pain, sweat shining on his brow. His voice shook when he spoke again. "W-we're ok. We're gonna be ok."

Dave couldn't reply. He was already hyperventilating and he was starting to feel lightheaded. His legs were badly hurt, he could tell that much by sight alone, but he couldn't feel any of it. They had been burning dully for a while, but he twisted his back trying to wriggle free and after a jolting shock of pain that sickened his stomach, suddenly, nothing.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, please, I can't..." Dave breathed. "Please..."

Dirk squatted in front of Dave, his face serious. He had to lean awkwardly to his right side, his left side still badly bruised and his left arm in a sling.

"Hey," Dirk said gently. "You can't keep this up forever."

Dave didn't reply. He didn't care. He didn't if his anger wasn't feasible or convenient. He was allowed to mourn. He was allowed to throw a fit. It was the only thing he had now, the only thing he had total control over. His body was no longer his; the other driver and the car's mangled carcass and the doctors and the surgeons had taken it from him. But his anger, its manifestations, its steady blaze in his chest, would always be his.

"Dave. Look at me."

Nothing.

"Dave."

"Dave!"

He looked over at Dirk, his eyes unfocused and darting. His entire body was drenched in cold sweat and blood and an uncomfortable numbness was slowly crawling its way up his back. There was so much blood on Dirk's face it looked like he was red. He couldn't breathe. There was something gripping his throat, some invisible force that was choking the air from his lungs.