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whitereflectionLittle more building backstory with the superhero AU.
Day 4, 11/4/10 4:37-4:56
What Jared remembers:
Driving in his parents' car with his family, on their way out to dinner to celebrate Jeff visiting from college and Jared's scores on the SAT and the ACT. It was dark, street and traffic lights shining like jewels against the wet pavement, and the backseat was crowded--him on the left side, Jeff on the right, Meg in the middle so Dad could actually see something in the rearview mirror other than someone's head.
He remembers his mother shouting his father's name, voice shrill with panic, remembers his father swearing. He remembers blinding-bright light filling the interior of the car, headlights flooding in from right in front of them and a bullet-fast thought of "Too close, too close".
He doesn't remember if he heard the squeal of brakes or the crashing and rending of metal or the shattering of glass.
What Jared can't decide was a memory or a dream:
There are glimpses in his mind of an operating room, bustling, machine-noisy, filled with low murmurs of intense, terse voices. He's looking down from the ceiling at himself, battered, bruised, broken. He tries to yell, but he makes no sound; and then the machines scream for him.
Where he goes next is quiet, soothing, full of light that's soft and warm, not blinding and carrying fear and pain like the other light from in the car. There are voices there, too, and they tell him, "Not yet. Not yet, son."
What Jared is told when he wakes up:
He's been in a coma for over three weeks. He's the only survivor.
(243)+small edits after check-in
***
Day 4, 11/4/10 4:37-4:56
What Jared remembers:
Driving in his parents' car with his family, on their way out to dinner to celebrate Jeff visiting from college and Jared's scores on the SAT and the ACT. It was dark, street and traffic lights shining like jewels against the wet pavement, and the backseat was crowded--him on the left side, Jeff on the right, Meg in the middle so Dad could actually see something in the rearview mirror other than someone's head.
He remembers his mother shouting his father's name, voice shrill with panic, remembers his father swearing. He remembers blinding-bright light filling the interior of the car, headlights flooding in from right in front of them and a bullet-fast thought of "Too close, too close".
He doesn't remember if he heard the squeal of brakes or the crashing and rending of metal or the shattering of glass.
What Jared can't decide was a memory or a dream:
There are glimpses in his mind of an operating room, bustling, machine-noisy, filled with low murmurs of intense, terse voices. He's looking down from the ceiling at himself, battered, bruised, broken. He tries to yell, but he makes no sound; and then the machines scream for him.
Where he goes next is quiet, soothing, full of light that's soft and warm, not blinding and carrying fear and pain like the other light from in the car. There are voices there, too, and they tell him, "Not yet. Not yet, son."
What Jared is told when he wakes up:
He's been in a coma for over three weeks. He's the only survivor.
(243)+small edits after check-in
***