Additional note: Thank you to Schnerby for her input on this even if I didn't listen ;) This is a 4-drabble series I wrote for numb

Witness

He sits on the ambulance's rear step, elbows on his knees, head in one hand. There's a thick pad of gauze in his palm, pressing on the still bleeding cut over his left eye. He knows where he is, just not how he got from there to here, from before to after. Maybe it's because of the headache. Or maybe it's the other way around, he can't tell. He feels lost, disconnected, somehow.

The noise around him is distant, as if he's got earplugs on. All he can see, all he can focus on is the yellow tarp spread over the asphalt and the lone sneaker just beside it. It's so small, so out of place, so...

The sight of it is almost too painful to bear but he can't look away.

He can't stop the scene from playing back in his head, can't stop hearing that sickeningly soft thud a millisecond before the shower of glass and the bone-jarring crash.

"I couldn't do anything," he murmurs. "I… I didn't… I couldn't… There was nothing I could do… I never…"

He bites off the lie he's about to say. He wants to say 'I never saw him.' But he did.

Evidence

He can still see it, clear as crystal; the speeding Mustang he's chasing just ahead, swerving as he gains on it, their suspect trying to flee a death sentence. And suddenly, a splash of movement in the corner of his eye. A soccer ball and just behind it, a blonde head full of curls. A child; barely ten years old.

He knew from the moment he recognised the form that there was no avoiding it.

It feels like time stretched those two seconds into a million because every single, hideous instant of it is stark and clear in his memory, as if reading from a script.

He remembers cursing, smashing his foot on the brake, his hand on the horn despite the already wailing siren. He remembers twisting the wheel towards the curb, hoping he'd miss the lamp post but praying like hell the front bumper would clear the running child. He can still feel the SUV dipping and bucking, hear the tires screaming.

He can still feel the fleshy, horrible impact through his bones, in his hands, in his head.

He breathes deep but the memory is branded into his mind. He can still feel it.

He lets his arms drop, leans forward and retches, drops of blood falling into his eye. The world takes on a red haze.

He blinks hard and spits the taste of bile from his mouth.

He doesn't see her but he knows she's there because he can hear her; the mother. He can hear the tears and the screams of anguish and he knows he'll hear them every time he closes his eyes.

Because he killed her son.

"I tried. God… I tried… I tried. I… tried," he repeats over and over again, unable to stop, like the never-ending film in his head.

Victim

The voice startles him.

"You need to go to the hospital. You need stitches."

He lifts his head and stares at Colby, uncomprehending. He looks around, as if waking from a dream. He remembers every detail from the crash, right up until the SUV slammed into the lamp post, like he'd known it would.

But...

It's like everything is slipping away, like sand through his fingers. He doesn't know how he got here, or quite where here is, other than the back of an ambulance. He thinks he's thought about that already but he's not sure. He knows what happened but... he doesn't anymore.

He sees a yellow tarp covering what looks like a small body and he somehow he knows he's responsible.

"I don't…" he says, not sure what he means.

"You took a pretty hard hit when the truck hit that pole. EMT's said you have a concussion but that you're refusing transport."

"I… don't..." he tries again but stops, the words gone, his thoughts going with them. The red haze is back and the world shifts sideways. He closes his eyes just as something hits him hard, from pelvis to shoulder. He wonders why it doesn't hurt.

Damages

The world comes back like a cold hand on his face. He gasps and sits up, knocking something metal to his left. He grunts and grits his teeth at the searing pain in his head.

"Easy, easy. Just relax," a voice says.

"Dad," he calls out, disoriented. He blinks and it doesn't help.

"Uh-huh. You're all right. Just take it easy."

"Yeah," he whispers. All right is relative.

He flops back to the bed, feeling the tug of the IV on his hand. He exhales slowly and opens his eyes, only to close them again, memories flooding back in a sudden rush; the screaming tires, the sickening, too soft thump, the brutal crash, the explosion of glass.

"It wasn't your fault," his father says.

"Yeah, it was," he answers. He didn't do it voluntarily. It was a stupid accident, a tragedy. Still, he's the one responsible.

"Donnie, you can't honestly think that. It was an accident. You didn't do anything wrong," his father argues.

He stays silent, knowing nothing he says will make his father understand.

Like most things in his life, it happened because of fate, not by choice. The end result is just the same.

It's inevitable.

Fin

As per usual, I would love to read your comments!