you aren't born with strength, you cultivate it

RHYS | One more drink 'til I'm done

RE-PUBLISHED: 11 JAN 2024 (written sometime in December)

Rhys Valentine tells a story about the one time he got injured during his career as a Firefighter.

tags: inaccurate medical procedures, firefighters, explosion, story time

"Five, four, three, two, one
One more drink 'til I'm done
I just wanna have fun
I'ma burn like the sun
Five, four, three, two, one
One last call and we're done
Now I'm back on the run
At least I'm not the only one"

"five4three2one" | Layto

_____

The noise is ear-piercing, shrill, earthshaking, booming. It's impossible to escape from the cacophony. All-consuming, surrounding the mind and body in a way unlike any other. Instead of being able to observe from afar, react and move, do anything but get caught in the mess, he's sent flying into the desks and a collection of highly volatile substances and delicate equipment.

"GYAH!" He unconsciously releases the cry. His noise is echoed by another. He knew they were close to him when the explosion went off, yet it's difficult to differentiate his own scream from his partner's. Especially under the encompassing sound of the pressure releasing explosively.

Rhys feels the impact on his side, careening into the desks and slamming his masked face against empty beakers and old CRTs. The too-late warning of "Clear the room!" echoed in his head as he crumbles unceremoniously to the ground, slamming with a force that knocks the air from his lungs as a symphony of crashes and roaring flames surrounds him.

He coughs roughly, desperately trying to regain his breath as he gasps for the precious oxygen the tank connected to his SCBA was providing. Through ringing ears, he hears shouted commands, barely discernable past the blaring while holding the urgency his adrenaline-pumping heart was providing. Past the ringing in his ears, there's a loud alarm near-deafening him fully with the aid the previous explosion provided.

Before Rhys is allowed to gather himself or assess the damage likely done to his persons or his PPE, the desk that overturned and blocked him from the heat of the fire is dragged aside. The pressure of the metal legs lifts from his right arm, sending a twinge of pain from the, likely broken, limb. Blearily, he glances up as best he could, finding his Chief, Dubhlainn Glenanne, staring down at him behind the visor of his helmet and the breathing apparatus covering his face.

The Chief seems to be saying something, but Rhys is still having trouble hearing past the ringing in his eardrums and the blaring, annoying siren of an alarm that's echoing throughout the trashed, blazing room. Rhys, much too dazed to comprehend most things, can only cough and hack up a lung in response to whatever Glenanne was trying to say. His wheezing and pain-addled grunts are difficult to ignore, and it seemed like the Chief was done trying to get him to understand what he was saying. It was that, or he was worried about the fire stubbornly blazing in the room that refused to be put out. Or maybe he was more concerned about Benjamin O'Sullivan. Sully was, in fact, closer to whatever went off. If he was composed enough, he likely would have felt more worried over the Lieutenant-in-training.

Rhys is dragged from that line of thinking when his right arm is tugged, snapping into focus sharply at the white-hot pain supplied by the limb. He's unable to contain his noises of pain, stubbornly biting his tongue though unable to quell the muffled shout. The Chief swiftly maneuvers his injured arm, lugging him over his shoulder in a Fireman's carry. The pain doesn't stop there, instead increasing as he's near tempted to launch himself from the older man's grip with the agony warming his chest.

He coughs sharply, groaning wordless protests as he's shifted painfully. Past the ringing, he hears the Chief's distinct voice saying "I'm sorry, hold on a little longer Valentine. We'll be out of here soon enough."