𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑 | ❝ run like the wind, and see how long it takes for your problems to catch up with you.❞
oliver sanchez is a fan of running away from his problems, but when his problems start chasing him, things become complicated. 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐓...
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{2.7}
"pack"
***
OLLIE FIGURED THAT DEATH would be disorienting.
The truth? It was kind of boring.
He didn't remember most of anything from that night. Just bits and pieces; snippits from the moment he was shot to the moment he laid motionless on the floor. He wished he saw something a bit more visceral; perhaps a face, a voice, a picture. Anything was better than lying there in complete darkness. Feeling like you were waiting for something miraculous or horrible to happen.
He never did get to find out what he was waiting for, as a searing pain in his shoulder set his blood on fire and brought him back to life.
The first thing he experienced was a piercing white light, and he assumed for a moment that it was some sort of last trick before sending him to hell. A final "you thought!" before he regarded his eternity; but instead, he heard the vague sound of wind outside a window. And a sharp tenor that sounded like an animal barking.
The white light turned to linoleum tiles. He found that his eyes were opening; his senses dulled and foggy as if he had just woken up from surgery. He felt a sharp surface under his back, his wrist drooped off the table, and smelled a sharp antiseptic. Like he was in a hospital.
He inhaled deeply, and found that it hurt. His chest ached as if his ribs were broken again, and his throat was so dry he tasted blood when he coughed. He rolled to the side to try and see his surroundings; but fell from his small gurney; hitting the ground with a grunt. He gasped, turning onto his back, but couldn't muster the strength to stand. It was as if someone took every ounce of strength from his body and channeled into making his muscles hurt. He stared at the ceiling, but it was unfamiliar. The ground was cold, and the gurney he was previously laying on was cold and unforgiving. Maybe he was dead, and this was what he faced. Weakness and confusion; wandering in a world he couldn't recognize.
That was when a face entered his vision. It was blurry at first, but fell into dim focus as Ollie squinted toward the light. A strike of familiarity pierced his skin, and he nearly cried with joy as he realized it was Scott's boss. The man who he once hit over the head with his baseball bat. Deaton - he was real; and his touch felt startlingly hot as he reached down and gripped Ollie's arms; hoisting him upward with surprising strength.
The boy stumbled, feeling lightheaded as he held tightly to the edge of the gurney. He groaned, leaning onto his forearms and sinking back down to his knees, pressing his cheek onto the cold steel.
Deaton smiled, kneeling beside him. He began to speak, but Ollie didn't understand a word he was speaking. English may as well have been complete gibberish; he wished Deaton could speak Spanish. It wasn't until a few moments, when he repeated the words, that he understood. "It's good to see you awake."
