Dream Again

Infinity

Hands are upon me.
I twist away automatically, gloved hands. A mask is clapping over my face. And hands are bearing upon a stretcher. I can still taste smoke.
"Breath in and out."
The noise of a helicopter. I'm being strapped down adn I feel hands poking the wounds. An IV goes on my arm. I can't comprehend it. This isn't what heaven is. Iv'e already been through hell though. If this is a dream I'd rather dream again. I'd rather River be here.
When I wake I'm in a bed.
A hospital bed
A hospital bed. A hospital. Tubes connected to me, a monitor beeping. No. No. I can't be here. No why am I here alone? I can't do this. I can't breath. There's an IV in my arm and a monitor on my chest. A nurse comes in. American acccent. Mini blinds on the window. My wounds are bandaged in soft white wrap. And my chest is hollow.
"Do you know what happened?" There's a cop standing there. Always a cop. This one looks like he means to be kind. He's a suit. Typical cop, standard conforming watch hair cut, American Cop FBI.
"I was involved in a plane crash," I say, my voice is rough, "My name is Dax Emerson. I was travelling from Sydney to LAX with Interpol Agent Brandon Wakely. He died in the crash. I did not willfully leave his custody and am surrendering myself to your custody. I'm wanted for three counts of murder and was being extradited to the United States from California."
"Okay," he didn't guess. I look a little different. And there were a lot of passengers. "Is there anyone else on the island?"
"There are remains, i can show you. River Knightly's grave is unmarked. I'll show you where she is buried, as well as any others I know," I say, staring around the room. I'm in a room. My skin is clean and my hair is brushed back.
"Thank you. We'll get to all that and bring you a map, any information you have we'll be grateful for."
"I need to speak with my lawyer, but I plan to fully cooperate with law enforcement proceedings which I was previously charged for," I say, trying to sit up in the bed.
"We've got social workers here who are bringing in families," he says.
"I have none. I'll talk to anyone's family, I'll explain what happened to—those I know about," I say, "About a hundred, two hundred maybe, survived the initial crash. I knew some."
"Okay. We'll get to all that. And we'll get you a phone so you can call your lawyer. For now relax. You're safe."
"What?"I stare at him.
"You're home now. We're just going to need your statement."
"Oh yes. I'll tell you truthfully."
I write it all down. They give me a laptop, government and heavy. I label the days as accurately as I can. I describe it, in case it's all I get to relay to the familes. I write in the notes that I want to meet them. That'll meet any of them that want to. I tell them where they're all buried, and how. And how they all died. And more importantly how they lived.
When I'm done they bring me broth and are shocked when I take it like manna from heaven. The word 'malnutritioned' comes up a lot. The nurses flow in and out. And guards are put on my door. Overworked nurses rush in and out. Then more cops. The extradition people. The fbi. All in cheap suits wearing bad cologne. I want to throw up.
They say my lawyer's coming. They say they're going to protect me.
They put me back on the drugs. In the IV. I'm still too weak to move. My skin is raw and sunburnt, rife with scars. There's a story for each one. Nobody seems to care.
"You're saying this is what happened? This all true?" The agent asks, holding up my story. A crisp stack of copy paper.
"Yes," I say.
"You say there was a—monster."
"There is a monster."

The end