Chapter 37: Into the Inferno
(Part 1 – Slipping into the Void)
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Under the Knife
Bright lights burn above me, too sharp, too white. They glare down like judging eyes, cold and unfeeling. The sterile scent of antiseptic fills the air, mixing with the metallic stench of blood—my blood.
I can't move.
I can't speak.
I can barely even think.
Voices murmur around me, muffled and distorted. Some are calm, steady. Others are urgent.
"He's lost too much blood."
"We need to remove the remaining bullets—now."
I try to process their words, but everything is slipping, fading.
Something presses down on my chest. A sharp pain flares through me, deep and piercing. I want to scream, but my body refuses to respond.
A cold instrument glides against my skin.
Then—agony.
A fresh wave of pain rips through my side. A sensation of something being pulled from within me, followed by unbearable heat searing through my nerves.
I can't escape it.
I can't fight it.
I am trapped.
---
Fading Consciousness
The voices blur together.
Doctors. Nurses. Machines beeping. The rustle of gloves.
It all blends into a mess of meaningless noise.
"Second bullet is out—get the sutures ready!"
"BP is dropping—he's fading fast!"
Fading.
Yes.
That's exactly what it feels like.
Like I'm dissolving into the nothingness.
Another cut. Another deep, burning pain. My body trembles, but I feel so detached from it.
"Last bullet—hold him steady!"
More hands press down on me. More burning, more pulling.
More slipping.
I can't stay here.
I can't—
---
The Beeping Slows
The room changes.
The pain dulls.
The voices fade.
And the beeping of the heart monitor—
It slows.
Slower.
Slower.
Flat.
A long, endless beep.
Someone shouts. The machine wails.
A jolt rips through me. My body seizes violently.
Then another.
And another.
Each one pulling me back, forcing me into the pain, into the heat, into the torment—
But it's not enough.
I feel myself slipping.
Something pulls.
Something takes.
And then—
Everything stops.
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The Room of Desperation
A different world.
Not the operating table.
Not the bright lights.
Just… cold.
And darkness.
Muffled voices echo. Distant. Fading.
They sound familiar.
Mom.
Dad.
Mark.
Lily.
They're calling me.
Shouting.
Begging.
I can't see them.
I can't reach them.
Something is keeping me here.
Something won't let me go.
---
The Pleas of the Living
The sound of footsteps—rushed, frantic.
Then—voices.
"Derrick!"
Mom's voice. Shaky. Desperate. Breaking.
"Derrick, we're here, baby. We're here!"
Dad. Strained. Forced to stay strong, but I can hear the panic under it.
Then—
A sharp, desperate sob.
"Derrick, wake up! Please, wake up!"
Lily.
Her hands grip mine, small fingers trembling, squeezing too tight, like she's afraid I'll slip away completely if she lets go.
"Y-You're okay, right? You have to be okay! You're just sleeping, right?"
Her words rush out, frantic and breathless.
Mark kneels beside her. His hands are clenched into fists, his jaw tight, his whole body coiled like a wire about to snap.
"Come on, Derrick… Just open your eyes, man."
I want to.
I really, really want to.
But—
---
The Doctor's Verdict
Footsteps approach.
A voice. Controlled. Clinical.
But there's an unease in it.
"How is he?" Mark demands, his voice tight, almost shaking.
The doctor hesitates.
Then—
"…He's slipping into a comatose state."
The words crash into the room like a bomb.
Silence.
Lily is the first to break.
"No." Her voice is small. Fragile. A whisper of disbelief.
Then—
Louder. Angrier.
"No, no, NO! He was just awake! H-He was awake a second ago!"
The doctor sighs. "His body has undergone extreme trauma. The blood loss, the injuries—his body is shutting down to preserve itself."
"I DON'T CARE WHAT HIS BODY IS DOING!"
Lily's scream shreds through the air.
She shakes my hand, her grip bruising, as if trying to force me awake.
"He's NOT supposed to just—just LEAVE LIKE THIS!"
Tears stream down her face. Her breaths are ragged, desperate.
Mark doesn't speak.
But his silence is heavier than anything.
His nails dig into his palms, his entire body trembling.
His breathing is sharp. Uneven.
And when he speaks, his voice is low.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
"There has to be something you can do."
Dad's voice follows. Steady, but demanding.
The doctor sighs again. "We'll monitor him closely. There's still hope. But… it's up to him now."
---
Between Two Worlds
Lily is still whispering my name.
Mark mutters something under his breath, too quiet to hear.
Mom strokes my forehead, her touch warm but distant.
Dad stands stiff, unmoving.
They're all here.
Calling out to me.
Begging me to stay.
But the darkness doesn't care.
It pulls.
It drags.
It devours.
And then—
A whisper.
Soft.
Too soft.
A voice that is not my own.
"Let go."
And then—
I fall.