Not Like This

Time meant nothing. Every second lasted a lifetime. Hours stretched, and each moment was filled with a pain that made everything bright white yet inky dark at the same time. Nothing was in focus. Opening eyes almost an impossibility. He hadn't moved for days, weeks - months, it felt like. But it couldn't be that long.

He remembered a time before the pain. And it seemed like a lifetime ago. Or maybe a dream. Something that happened to someone else. A half-remembered film. There was laughter, and joy. There'd been one perfect day when he'd taken a picnic in the park down the road with his wife and their little girl. She'd picked daisy chains in the sunshine and turned cartwheels - badly. He'd talked about his new promotion, and they planned a vacation. Somewhere nice - maybe abroad. His little girl, Daniella, had never been in an airplane before, and they'd talked about whether she was still too young, whether it would be worth the stress of the journey. There had been discussions of maybe a second child. Nice things, normal things. Nothing exciting, but that day, that beautiful summers day with its soft breeze, stood out in his memory. So contrasting to now. A world of bright white darkness, or pain, where he was too hot, yet so cold. Shut in a room, all alone.

Daniella was gone now. So was his wife. One dead, one left. Jean hadn't been able to cope with the loss of their daughter, and the growing sickness around. She'd walked out the morning that he couldn't get out of bed, leaving him with just a jug of water by his side. That was long gone now. And even if it wasn't, he couldn't lift his arm to drink.

He was thirsty, so thirsty. His lips were cracked, his throat like paper - it made coughing even more painful. Sometimes he tasted blood in his mouth. It was an effort to spit it out. Maybe that would be the end - maybe he would choke on his own blood. He knew he was going to die. He was resigned to that. It was only a matter of time and he welcomed the end now. He just wanted it over with. Wanted the endless to end.

He slept. Or, he thought he slept. There was no memory of time immediately before he was moved. Before his world of pain exploded into agony that took what little breath he had left away. He didn't know how much time had passed since his last awareness, but he knew he was weaker. He tried to tell them to stop, but he couldn't move his mouth. He couldn't see them - he couldn't see anything any more.

He could feel though. He could feel every movement ripping through his body like knives. He could feel every step as though it was a red hot needle. he could hear their voices, but couldn't make out what they were saying. Suddenly he could feel air on his face. Fresh air, though with the taint of something. And then he was falling. And there was blackness.

He wasn't in bed, his arm was twisted painfully beneath him and something was poking up into the small of his back. There was a wetness against his cheek, something lying across his legs, pressing him down. Suddenly the pain didn't seem to be so important, because this was wrong. Something was very wrong and the panic welled up as he tried to move, but he couldn't. His limbs wouldn't respond as he tried to move, he couldn't see, he couldn't speak. he needed to get out of here, wherever here was.

And there was the smell. A putrid, rotting, overwhelming stench that made him want to throw up. He'd never known anything like it. He thought it was the worst smell in the world - until that other smell hit him.

At first, it was like burning hair. An acrid, harsh smell that hit the back of his throat, the bridge of his nose. It was the smell that came first, but it was followed by the sound. A crackle, a loud pop. Then another, and another, at first from one side, then all around him, alien noises which he couldn't define, all the time with the growing smells.

It took a while for the heat to hit him. For it to grow warmer, then hotter. Enough time for him to work out what this was. For the true horror of the situation to hit home. He wasn't dead yet. How could they have thought he was dead. How could they not have checked. He tried to move, but he couldn't. Even if the body - and now he realised it was a body - atop him hadn't been keeping him down, he couldn't have moved. There was time enough to know how this was going to end, for the smoke to reach him, harsh and greasy and cloying, but not enough. The wind was blowing in the wrong direction, taking the smoke which would have at least given him a quicker and less terrifying death away from him. Leaving him to the flames. Always getting closer, until they eventually started lapping at his clothes, his skin,

He'd known death would come for him, but it hadn't been meant to be like this.