Democracy

delirious

*a short but important chapter*
I can't focus, my head is light and my ears ring. I clench my fists, jabbing my nails into my hand to see if I'm still alive; it hurts, and yet I still can't open my eyes. All these incomprehensible images are bombarding me and I want them to stop. I don't want to watch this beautiful stranger die. He doesn't deserve it.
I call out his name.
Hearing my voice, a thread of other voices begins, pulling me in and out of consciousness like a yo-yo going up and down up and down.
"Luke?" A vaguely recognisable voice calls out. The word echoes, followed by a glum shadow of blurred recognition. Forming in my throat is a lump, a rock, clawing at my skin, my brain, my mouth, trying to get out. I breathe in and see a flash of blood on a cold metal table and the man whimpering atop it. Harriet and Satherine standing beside me, watching the panic of the men before us rushing to help the dying boy. Cecilia and Fern talking above my head, waiting for me to wake up. Cecilia and Satherine waiting for me to help him. Fern and Harriet calling my name or his name or Luke's name and wetting my head, wanting a response.
"Luke's dying," I whisper, the word's escaping me. Sinking in the thick air beyond my lips. "Dorian." I cry out, trying to make him wake up; he needs to wake up; I need him. Panic is swelling up, tears burning my eyes, throat aching as I scream for him to wake up. But in the images, in the images I am not. I remain calm, my thoughts don't, but there is no crack in my face or composure to ever suggest the storm of emotions brewing inside of me. Irritation enwraps my expression, as I focus on the volunteer's trembling hands as he works on the dying boy, Luke.
Numb legs don't move under me but I can feel them burning as I run, I can remember that burn of muscles that I couldn't have stopped even if I'd wanted to. Warm blood stills flows generously around my body inside this comfortable room but I can feel my icy fingers shrink away from the wind as I pull my hand up to knock on the door of his little loud house. Vulnerable under the spell of these images, I am unable to move, but within them I can feel myself as I dart forward, tackling the old weak father of the boy and feeling the pain of him fighting back. Inactive as I am, lying here in the ground, my heart is still but, standing over the bloodied body of the boy's father, it pounds in my chest.