Lost in the Dark

I regain consciousness with a jolt of fear. Something was crushing my chest. I couldn't breathe. It hurt so much that I tried to scream, but my voice broke.

“Don't move, son, we're almost there...” A deep, calm and composed voice. “Ready, guys? One, two, three!”

The heavy weight was lifted from my chest, and I gulped as much air as I could.

“Easy, son, easy. Take your time.”

Two big hands were already running on my upper body, my neck. I would have chased them away, but I was too busy catching my breath. My chest hurt like hell. My head was pounding, too. I wailed when a hand touched my left temple.

“Head injury, cracked ribs,” the deep voice said. “I need an emergency blanket here, he's getting cold... Stay with me, son. What's your name?”

But my thoughts were drifting away, soothing the pain. Suddenly, a piercing shriek split my head: “You murderer! You killed my son!”

* * *

When I woke up again, I was lying in a bed. The room was quiet and smelled of sanitizer. Hospital's smell. My head was aching, but it was bearable. I was alone.

I tried to get up, but a sharp pain made me fall back on the bed, panting. Yet I had to get up. Right now. I braced myself again, clenching my fists. I had to get up, to go and check on... who? I couldn't remember.

My throat tightened, I felt sick to my stomach. I couldn't recall anything except the fear, the pain, the deep voice and the woman's shriek... I couldn't even remember who I was...

Panic seized me. I clutched at the sheets so I wouldn't slide into the darkness, but... I guess I passed out.

* * *

Some noise. Muffled voices outside the room.

“Is he awake?”

“Not yet. And his brother?”

“He is. The surgeon said his leg's surgery is a success, he should walk again eventually.”

“Did the police find their family?”

“They're by themselves. They grew up in an orphanage and Peter Owens claimed custody of his brother last year, when he turned eighteen.”

“Poor guy. Too bad he couldn't control his car.”

“Yeah... Call me when he wakes up.”

“Sure. Good night.”

Peter Owens. My name.

I had a brother. He was badly injured. Because of me.

You murderer! You killed my son!

A hand on my mouth to hold back any sound, I started to cry, alone in the dark.

I wanted to forget everything.

* * *

Morning came. And with it, two nurses. They took me to the bathroom, then they bandaged my ribs tightly and fed me. All the while, they asked me a lot of questions, but I didn't answer any of them. Most of the time I didn't know what to say. And I didn't want them to realize it.

Then a doctor came. Same questions again. My silence seemed to worry him. He examined my chest, my temple. “You're healing well. Any headache?” I nodded slightly. “Nausea? Dizziness?” I shook my head. “Good,” he said, satisfied. “Be careful when you move and ask for a pain killer if you need it. I'll see you tomorrow.”

He left the room, stopped at the door to speak with someone. “You can see him now, Sir, but he needs to rest. Don't stay too long.”

“I won't. Thank you, doctor.” The deep man's voice from before, so calm and composed. “Hi, son. I'm Sullivan, the sheriff,” he said, entering the room. “I'm glad to see you're awake. How do you feel?”

Bad.

I turned on the other side and closed my eyes. The sheriff came by the bed. I pulled the sheets up over my chest.

“I won't bother you for long, son,” he said, his voice coming from very high up. He was tall. “I was with your brother just now. He'll recover, but he can't walk yet, and he needs to see you're alive. Do you think you can go to his room after your nap?”

“No!”

“Why?”

I bit my lip. He had caught me by surprise with his silly question, but I would say nothing more. I didn't want to explain myself.

“Tell me why, son... Do you resent him for the car crash?”

Resent him? As if... I was shaking.

“Son? What's wrong?”

I killed someone! I was suffocating. Why didn't he leave me alone?

He moved at last. But he wasn't leaving. He came back to my side, and something heavy landed on the ground.

“Speak to me, son. Whatever it is, don't keep it for yourself.”

His voice was coming from much lower than before. He was now sitting on a chair. It wasn't his intent to leave. Not at all. And suddenly, it was too much to bear.

“I killed someone!” I cried, clinging to the sheets.

“You? When?”

“The car crash! You heard the woman's shriek, didn't you? And last night, someone said I couldn't control the car.”

“Ah... That someone said your name?”

“Yes. Peter Owens.”

He kept silent for a long time, then: “Did you shave this morning?”

“No,” I snapped at him. “What's your point?”

He made a movement near my face.

“How many fingers?” he asked.

The old joke! “For God's sake, don't you know I'm blind?”

“I do, son, I do. Seems to me you're the one who forgot.”

“What? Don't kid me!”

“You can't drive.”

My mind went blank. I heard a sigh.

“You're not Peter Owens. That's your older brother's name. You're Danny Owens, fourteen years old.”

A big hand rested lightly on my shoulder.

“It was a hell of a crash, son, with many cars involved. Your brother managed to avoid the boy, but unfortunately another car... I was there when it all happened, you can trust me.”

His hand was warm, like his voice. Comforting.

“Take a nap, now. I'll talk to the doctor about your amnesia and confusion. It's quite common after a head injury and it shouldn't last, so don't worry. I'm sure you'll be fine, son.”