_ALONE

I.

Trigger warnings: Near-asphyxiation, near-death, amnesia, a brief but graphic description of burnt skin, other injuries

Chapter word count:  5,670

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The moment he opens his eyes, he realizes that he could not breathe.

A hand flies to his throat and he tries to feel around, searching for the murderous person strangling him, but when he recognizes no hands other than his own, his windpipe shrinks even more and it forms a stubborn knot within his throat. His vision, only barely cleared after waking up, slithers back to the darkness and there is nothing but this dreadful, crushing sensation that brings him to tears. He gasps, sharp, but what only comes out is a pathetic whistle as he tries to call for help.

Help me.

I'm dying.

I'm going to die.

I'm going to fucking die!

He slaps around the seat, barely registering who or what or where he is — he kicks, flails, but the space is so small all he can do is twitch and whine in whichever gloomy place he is currently stuck in. He kicks again, breathing in, breathing out, crying, screaming a voiceless scream, until the whistles start fading out like a balloon zipping past as it runs out of air and he starts seeing something white —

And then everything just stops.

Two, four, six seconds fly by, all drowned in silence. The man remains very still on his seat, slumped, until he starts awake as if kicked on the side. He swells, inhaling deep, and the heavenly white from some seconds before vanishes. His chest swells, his throat opens up, and the air comes in, all gushing in waves, warm but welcoming —

Suddenly he is able to breathe again, and he breathes in more air than he had ever breathed before; he heaves a million times over to soak it all in. He doubles down, almost letting out a sob as his feeble hands press against his chest. His throat feels raspy and dry. His breaths sound like wheels on gravel finally rolling to a stop.

He inhales, exhales, and inhales, leaning back in his seat. He glances around and notices for the very first time that he's been sitting all alone in some car. The windshield and windows have all been smashed. Glass shards are scattered all over the dashboard, on his lap, and on the passenger seat. He didn't sense it before, but he's beginning to think that it may be a little too cold from outside. He removes his baseball cap, brushes away the sweat from his scalp, looses whatever piece of clothing he has wrapped around his neck and brushes away the shards of glass from his legs. A few are caught in the fabric of his coat and trousers. None of them got through his skin, thankfully.

He looks around the car. He isn't sure why, but he knows deep within him that this isn't his car. He doesn't remember driving it, let alone crashing it, and he most certainly cannot remember how he even got here in the first place. He watches the view outside and notices that he's stuck in a traffic jam of some sort, and when he finds the dead traffic lights from up ahead, he realizes at long last that he isn't quite sure what his name is, either.

My name... I can't...

I can't remember.

One hand presses against his forehead as the knowledge sinks in.

What the hell is my name?

He squints out at the streets. Several broken cars are lined up before him; dead, unmoving. The sidewalks are empty. No pedestrians are crossing. He glances behind him and finds more vehicles all stuck on the road with him, somehow all smashed like his car. He sits there, trapped, hearing no other noise save for his breaths and beating chest which both sink as the seconds tick idly by.