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What I remembered last was running, sprinting. Demanding oxygen into my lungs as I warmed the atmosphere in a straight line. My destination was the curb on the side of our street. This was his favorite seat, practically his throne, where he demonstrated his marvels. He was standing there now, his scarf's frayed ends inches from my hand. Then from his backside, I saw him crouch, knees bent, legs in perfect position. We jumped.
Now, I look to my right, and I see the "him". Lying on the bed next to mine, needles and tubes running from his left arm that mirrored the ones in my right. He was looking at me in the same manner, an empty smirk. In the hospital robe, he sat up, eyes shifting to the half filled bag of IV fluids.
"So it looks like . . . we're screwed." He concluded, casually.
"I know." I chuckled. Our demented souls were no real news, neither was the situation. Mirroring him further as I glanced over to my small alarm clock, I frowned. ?I told you not to do that.? I growled, lazily shooting him a dirty look. He sighed, taking my free hand in his.
"Maybe one of these days, I'll finally get it right." He whispered. He whispered with a uniquely calming hoarseness that sent chills down my spine. The vocalized wish sent me back 2 hours before.
It was 4 now, ante meridiem, but 7,200 seconds ago, my brother and I got hit by a truck.
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