Drip
The strain must've gotten the better of him and he had either been unconscious or dozing off, because there was a notable lapse in his recent memory.
Something dripped on his cheek and when he slowly, agonizingly opened his eyes and looked around, he was still in the blown up part of that warehouse.
It was quiet now.
Silence and almost complete darkness lingered around him, heavy and soft like black chenille.
Almost peaceful, if only his body wouldn't feel like a war zone: raw and sore, although the pain was reduced to a distant throbbing at this point. He figured his nervous system had found a way to shut itself down, otherwise he would go mad from the pain of having his arm crushed by debris and the emotional agony of laying next to the body of his dead father.
He had also lost track of time, so he didn't know how long he'd been waiting for help, but his muddled brain provided him with a convenient answer anyway: They weren't coming because he was meant to be left behind, the story of his life repeating itself one final time.
Only this time the sinking feeling of realization didn't set in.
He felt oddly detached from the fact that he was left here to die.
Something trickled over his face, triggering the irrational anger that he couldn't even die in peace.
The explosion must've severed the pipelines running along the ceiling, subjecting him to water torture in his last minutes (hours? days?).
As if he wasn't already slowly losing his mind anyway.
And the white light creeping in from the sides of his vision wasn't helping at all.
It was so bright, that it stung in his tired eyes.
And the dripping…!
The brightness increased, moving faster now and overpowering everything else and then a voice said: "Lady, please don't cry on the patient."
Someone sniffled a "Sorry" and then something brushed over his cheek and the touch jolted him fully awake.
