Dystopia

-7

Strewn across the hardwood flooring lied crystalline prisms of broken glass, and an none other than William Hartford himself; streams of burgundy blood dripping down from the left side of his injured face.

He couldn't hear a thing, until he realized that he could hear everything. And this supposed "everything" was just his own continuous and hysterical screams, drowning out the world. So, it appeared that everything was to be nothing, simply due to the continuity of it all.

For if pain is all you know, how can you distinguish a world without it to be normal?

Camila's footsteps echoed within their spacious home; each "thump" gradually growing louder and louder until they had ceased entirely, and she was standing right before him.

Throughout all the thoughts rushing within William's brain at once, one of them wondered whether his mind had grown louder, or everything around him had just gone quieter.

However, not a single one of them considered the simple idea that it could be both at once.

And he thought these things as his wife suppressed a horrified shriek, but it seemed, that his mind had blockled that out as well.

If William's thought process were to be a Venn Diagram, with one pitiful circle regarding whatever was going on around him, and the other labeled as what he was thinking about, the oval of their intersection would be completely and utterly blank.

"Oh my god, Will are you okay? What happened? Talk to me, please! Please, please stop screaming and talk to me!"

Oh yeah. Apparently he was screaming.

And then he remembered precisely why he had been screaming in the first place.

His head hurt, and it wasn't a broken-glass-cut-on-my-face type of hurt, this was the treacherous, horrifying feeling that felt as if all the pain in the world had been compressed into one sinister time-bomb and was left only to detonate into a supernova of terrifying pain.

His wife's body was now draped over his; trembling with panic and miserable cries.

"Please, please, please Will. Just get up!"

But he didn't. The bomb had already went off.

Camila clawed desperately into the pockets her William's sweatpants, and pulled out his secondary phone.

"Hello, yes, m-my husband he's.. he's just on the floor and he.. he, I don't know! He's screaming now, he won't stop! Wha-what do I do!" Her voice was frantic; panicked wildly. And she paused for a short moment before speaking once more. "13, 71st street, New York City... Yes. Okay... Thank you, please, please hurry."

She instantaneously set down the phone in one rushed and hasty movement, before wrapping her arms around his large figure. Camila cried into his chest, and faint whispers of, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I love you" were to be heard vaguely through undying sobs and screams of perpetual fear.

-

The medics and policemen were there in an instant; rushing throughout the home as if they owned the place.

They all worked together to carry William out of the house, and by now he wasn't screaming as so much as he was crying and whispering to himself. Yet, when put in his perspective, his actions were justified.

In fact, all he could single out from this chorus of palpable loudness was his wife's "I love you"'s and the occasional "Sir, can you hear me?"