The constant ringing in my ears slowly drives me insane. I toss and turn, trying to get rid of it. I’m tormented by the thought of not knowing what’s going on. I can’t be too sure of my thoughts; they’re too far out. Am I dreaming?

I see myself riding my bike, building up strength for the race coming up. Suddenly, I’m flying off my bike in slow motion. As I’m flying, I see a small pick-up truck speed past me. I hit the ground softly, in slow motion still, but the pain from the impact seemed brutal for having been laid on the ground so gently.

I just lie there in pain and unable to move. I start to scream for help, but no one is near; the road is completely deserted.

The pick-up drives past me again; it appeared from nowhere. This time, it drives by slowly, as if to taunt me.

Suddenly, I’m on my feet, yelling curses at whoever the driver is. Suddenly, I feel fine: no pain, pure strength: strength from my wrath.

I feel like throwing rocks at the truck as it slinked by. As if my thought was answered, a mountain of rocks laid beside me.

I immediately pick up a handful of rocks and throw them at the truck. None of them hit. None of them came close, and yet, the truck wasn’t that far away from me. I threw as hard as I could and no rocks hit the truck. It just didn’t make sense.

I scream and grab more rocks. As I throw another handful, my right arm starts to ache. It wasn’t a painful ache, but rather a deep, sore ache. My arm started to throb to this ache. It became annoying.

647-MCA.

Numbers and letters instantly popped into my head. 647-MCA they blinked. Huge red numbers and letters blinked to the throb of my right arm. At each blink, the numbers and letters grew larger and larger, until the red surrounded me, engulfed me.

I see myself lying on the side of the road, twisted in an odd ball with my bike crushed on top of me. I look closely at myself lying there. I strain my eyes; everything’s a blur. I’m wearing black. Black shorts, black shirt, black helmet. Everything is black. Even my once silver and blue bike is black. Everything about me becomes surrealistically black. My crumpled bike turns into a flimsy substance as it bends and molds over my body, like a blanket.

I blink the blackness away and suddenly I see nothing but white. The sudden contrast hurts my eyes. They start to water as I try to concentrate on something. But all is in vain; all I see is white. The white is overpowering. I feel like screaming again, but I can’t. That’s when I notice the tube lodged down my throat.

All at once, I hear faint beeping noises. Then, all too clear, I hear voices. But no one’s in this room. I try to focus my eyes once more and I discover I was mistaken. A doctor and a nurse stand at the foot of my bed.

“He’s identified as Kevin Holmes, doctor. We had to amputate his right arm; there’s nothing we could do to save it. He landed on that arm when he crashed and completely fractured it.”

“What about his head?”

“He’s still comatose, with multiple and severe injuries to his head and upper torso.”

“How did it happen?”

“Hit and run accident, is what I was told. Mr. Holmes was out riding his bike when a pick-up truck hit him. The eyewitness was an elderly woman who was driving behind the man in the pick-up. She claims the driver of the truck must have been drunk, the way he kept swerving off the road. The woman identified the truck as being red, with the license plate 647-MCA. The truck sped off before she could get the model of it.”

My arm begins to throb. My head starts to throb too. My whole body throbs. My thoughts are racked. I can’t concentrate. I start to elapse into my delirium again. As I start to fade out, I try to scream.