one foot in front of the other ➳ phan

nightmare? if only

"So, Dan, please describe your symptoms."

Screaming. Crying. Clawing, tearing, biting. Shaking, rocking, pacing. Wanting to leap out the window, Phil having to take all the razors and blades out of the flat and give them to a friend. The list goes on.

"The usual."

The doctor nods sympathetically and jots notes down on a piece of paper, which sounds like nails on a chalkboard to Dan. He grips the arm of the chair and Phil's hand rests on his good knee as it bounces up and down, just like his moods.

"Okay, anything else notable?" She inquires from her throne of pharmaceutical expertise behind a massive mahogany desk, separating her from the mentally unstable patients she sees.

Dan begins to shake his head, but Phil clears his throat. He rolls his eyes and throws one hand up.

"I guess the dreams suck," he mutters.

"Dreams?" She asks, obviously trying to pry more information from the man with dark circles beneath his eyes. He obviously doesn't take the hint, and begins tracing patterns into the faux leather with his fingernail. "Dan, could you describe these dreams to me please?"

He inhales shakily, and remembers the scene that unfolded behind his eyes just last night.

The smoke hadn't cleared. The ringing in his ears was deafening, but it let him feel something again. Rubble fell and the structures collapsed around him, creating a wall of debris, eliminating all natural light from the interstice he was trapped within. The light fixture had fallen upon impact, and mechanical shrapnel stuck out of his arms.

His eyes searched for light among the darkness, but found none. His voice sounded foreign as he called for help, as it was hoarse and sounded...broken. He tried to move his left arm, but failed at the first sign of pain. The bone was broken in at least three places if not completely shattered, and the metal sticking out of his skin didn't help. His right arm was mostly fine, though; and he used this to his advantage to try to claw some of the debris from his path.

He was pinned beneath the remains of what was probably the map of the London Underground System before the explosion. His hair was matted to his forehead by a thick sheen of sweat and blood, which dripped into his eyes every time he tried to move. That's when he heard it.

A voice—no, it was a scream. Not everyone had died.

His first instinct was to get to that person, to help them. Hell, if that person was in a better condition than him, they'd both have a better chance of survival than just being apart. The screams of pain coming from clear across the wall of stone and dust prompted his attempt at full body movement, and when he did, he realised that he had feeling in every limb but one: his left leg.

When he lowered his hand to his knee, he felt loose skin and a thick substance, but nothing below that. It was then that he knew he was going to die—he was going to bleed out, and die. He needed to say his goodbyes; his last words to Phil couldn't be "I'm going to the shops, I'll be back in an hour."

The sirens closed in, and light illuminated his terror stricken face as he realised that death would've been the better option.

"Dan?"

It's Phil's voice that pulls him from his thoughts, and he quickly wipes the vulnerability and tears from his cheeks. Phil has tears in his eyes, too, and the doctor writes notes furiously. He hasn't even spoken about the dreams, and yet he's said everything he needed to.

The woman behind the desk hands Dan a slip of paper, and it contains a new medication he has never seen before. He cocks his head, and she quirks a small smile.