My Feral

1

It's dark....so dark. It's all around him, everywhere, closing in. Tighter and tighter.

And then there's a flash of light, headlights and the little blinking numbers on the radio.

6:30....6:30....6:30....6:30

And then, that, too, is gone, and there is nothing but the squeal of metal on metal.

A scream pierces the darkness, and the scrabble of fingers on his arm.

Nails rake down his bare skin, followed by blood.

Another scream, and the feeling of bones crunching together and shattering in his knee and leg and foot. He's all broken up.

A little voices calls out to him, "....Max....dad...."

Then there is pain and more blood and screaming and voices. Gruff and authoritative voices asking questions he can't answer.

All he can do is shake his head and say no over and over again, blood dripping out of his mouth and where is his baby where is his wife where are they where are they?

Max jolts upright in bed, blankets twisted around his waist and sticking to his bare skin with sweat. Before he can stop it, a strangled whimper leaves his parched lips.

Groaning, he rubs the sleep from his eyes, and is just about to check how long he has left to "sleep" when the alarm clock goes off.

The shrill alarm pierces his throbbing head, and Max throws the clock against the wall.

The clock lands on the floor, plastic casing cracked and batteries popping out of the back.

"Shit," Max says quietly, getting painfully out of bed and limping over to the wreckage.

Trying to kneel down to pick up the pieces, his bum knee protests, forcing him instead to bend over and scoop up the clock and batteries.

Setting the pieces on top of his dresser, he rummages in the drawers for clean clothes that are void of any rips or blood-colored stains.

Coming up partially successful with a black tee shirt and jeans with a hole in the knee, he grabs a button up and goes to shower.

His knee starts to throb, cutting his shower short, and he towels off in front of the mirror.

Once he's dried off, and his hair is sticking up in semi-damp sikes, his eyes stray down to the thick scars on his ribs and stomach.

Sighing, he says to his reflection, "you're a damn patchwork, Rockatansky."

After running calloused and scarred fingers through his hair to flatten it down, he eases himself into his clothes before heading back out to the bedroom to put on his knee brace.

Strapping the thing on, he pulls on his Converse high tops and goes into the kitchen for breakfast. Meaning too much coffee and maybe a banana.

Max busies himself with making the coffee, and, upon finding that he has no bananas left, opts for oatmeal instead.

While the water boils in a pot on the stove, Max sips his coffee out of a chipped mug and absentmindedly stirs the oats into the water when it is hot enough.

He makes too much oatmeal....because of course he does. Even after two years, it is hard getting used to only cooking for one. Not that he even does much cooking, or eating, for that matter.

Shaking his head, he sets down the mug and takes the pot over to the sink, cursing when some of the water splashes onto his hands.

Leaving the pot to soak in the sink, he goes over to the table and stirs in too much milk and brown sugar into his oatmeal.

Whatever, he thinks. It tastes good.

As the food slides down his throat and fills his hollow stomach with warmth, he sighs and resigns himself to the flashbacks clawing at his brain.

The hospital was so bright. The light hurt his eyes it hurt it hurt he hurt. Everything hurt. And where were they? Where were his wife and child? He needs them. Oh, god, he can't do this without them.

There are more questions then, but he still can't answer them. Everything feels soft and hazy, but through the clouds permeating his mind, Max hears words that stab into his heart and bring tears to his eyes.

Words like "dead at the scene," "nothing we could do," "amazing that he even survived the crash." Oh, Max thinks. So that's what happened. A crash. Yes, a crash. With skidding tires and screams and glass and a drunk driver, and then a flipped car and his leg and everything went away.

Things didn't stop after that, though. They just kept right on moving.

There were casts -on his arm and leg, lots of stitches and cuts that gave way to thick ropes of scar tissue. And then there was the funeral, a joint one, because that was all Max could handle. Jesus Christ, he went to the funeral with crutches and a sling on his arm. It felt too soon. It was all moving too fast. Too much. Max wanted to crawl into the ground with his wife and child and just stay there next to them.

But, no, he wasn't allowed to give up. He had to keep moving. Had to keep moving. Because if he stopped, the flashbacks would suck him in and spit him out with alcohol on his breath and bruises that he didn't remember getting.

And then there was therapy -physical and talk.

Max preffered the physical therapy, even though it hurt like a bitch, to the talk therapy.

Trauma and heartache seemed to have stolen his voice, reducing it to grunts and short, clipped sentences. Mostly, he was silent. It hurt to talk. Talking made it real.

The physical therapist helped him get his arm up and working again, but his damn leg refused to cooperate. So, when Max was diagnosed with PTSD, an anxiety disorder, and mild depression, he got a leg brace, too.

By the time that the flashbacks let him go, Max realizes that if he doesn't get moving now, he's going to be late to work. Taking a last bite of the oatmeal, he leaves the bowl to soak in the sink, makes sure he has his phone and keys, shrugs on his leather jacket, and limps out to his old Volvo.