The Collection

"I'm so sorry"

Screams echoed in his head playing on loop. Both human and mechanical with the latter droning the prior. All the while his plane is set ablaze as the jet engines emit thick puffs of smoke.

Protocol was followed, he steels himself and remembered grabbing the radio to send out a message. Then after hastily with a death's vice grips the wheel and using his strength to stabilize the shaking plane. He reassured the two people on board, past his shoulder, voice wavering in forced cheer.

It did jack shit.

Nothing he did helped if not made things so much worse. The fire engulfed nearly his entire plane, his protective bubble and it's so hot and intense that he couldn't attempt an escape past the smoke. Oddly the flames hadn't reached him in the cockpit and how he slipped out was a mystery itself.

What he does distinctively recall is being upside down, hung up by the long, sturdy vines wrapped around his ankle up to his thigh. His red headset lays on the ground, attached by frayed wires, emitting dead static.

Nobody would hear him scream or cry in agony, swinging in circles, hitting the trees around him as he struggled to get free. They couldn't see how he blindly yanks his blade from his side or when the vines finally snap loose after slicing it and accidentally at his leg as it drops him head first into the mud below.

Nor do they understand the concept of disjointedly observing the plane he grew to appreciate for years, hung hundreds of feet above his twisted body as it slowly char to ash. Knowing that for a fact he's the lone survivor.

Time became foreign for him, only told by the switching of the sun's heat and moon's chills. On the third day, maybe the fourth, he groggily crawled out from the sinking pit with moist soil shoved under his nails. The mud doing an iffy job to meld close the open wounds seeping puss that the maggots love to eat.

He couldn't go too far, his body unwilling to go any further and leaned against the same tree he got hung upside down from, the one he kept hitting his body on. The tree's bark scrapping the back of his head and he didn't have the energy to check the damage. Blood already soaks everything he touches. Death enveloped every aspect of his life, carelessly wielding and it didn't matter who it ripped away from him.

If this was how he was supposed to die then he hopes it goes quickly, he doesn't want to be alive. It couldn't get any worse then this. Bur he doubts the universe will be merciful as it sure did love to punish him.

Breathing heavy, he notes the switch blade a short distance from his touch. His fingers grazing the sharp edge, he contemplates on slashing his wrists or throat, stab the blade deep into his chest. Heart pounding, taking slower beats, dying out while he chokes on his blood in the sinking mud.

Doesn't he deserve the slow, painful death befitting him? None of this would've gone ahead if not for his selfish need for a great plan. Then he decided to drop the thought. Why would he humor a stupid idea? What will people say? Think? Do? If they find his corpse.

They see what he did, demanding answers in a demeaning snarl, 'How could he do this? What a coward. Suicide is a selfish cop out. Let him rot in hell for it' They'll say dismissively over his rotting corpse.

A respected pilot is meant to go down with his plane, isn't he? Die an honorable death then rot away like this?

This was his fault for opening up Pandora's box which he'd cheerfully unleashed to the world. Closing his eyes, feeling the crisp air smack his face, he couldn't change it, can't do so with his mistakes and regrets. Despite it he would've switched places with them in an instant if he could.

Then in a blip the cool air is switched with the blazing glory of fie. Once again. But he wasn't exempt this time, finding himself strapped in a chair within an area built of cold, red steel and far smaller then his cockpit.

Lungs filled with black smoke, burning his throat and insides that he coughed up blood then vomit and lastly, an unknown chunky blob. He lets slip a raspy cry, skin bubbling, the pustules climb up his limbs to his torso as the flesh melts right off the bone. Try as he might, he frantically scratches his arms, an attempt to hold up the skin, mold it back together and smears the meaty tears across his face.

Past those tears, the world's spinning and descending too fast for him to truly focus as eventually it crash landed with an impact force strong enough that he's sprawled out on the ground.

Half lucid and helpless, he breathlessly let's a gasp escape. Witnesses blindly as pearly white clouds pushed past the coal colored smoke, sucking him in, letting the world disintegrates to an empty void. The clouds weren't thick by any means when he swings his fist through, smacking a hidden firm object.

Confusion turn to horror when a low hiss arose from the recoiling clouds while hands coated in ash lunge at him. Grabbing at his shoulders, an arm pushing down his chest, it wasn't forceful but more like restraint.

Still he fights and if he could, bite the hands that yanked him closer to the giant figure it belongs to, draw blood if he's lucky.

"Sss" It snaps, startled, he thrashes while struggling to form words until blurting the word out. Short and curt. "Stop"

He stops as requested, ears pricking. That voice. It commanded strict attention. So he allows the hands to handle him. Move him to a better position, made him lay down on a soft surface. The palms pressed flat on his shoulders as one hand inches up to his face, fixing something plastic. Breathing came a bit easier to him now.

"Stay with me" It's gruff voice ordered then softening, "C'mon Charlie"

The nickname and the way its spoken broke the illusion. As the smoke clears, the figure steps in, voice stabilizing, hearing it better in one ear then the other.

His vision clears up slowly as it reveals the ash on the figure's charred face crumbling away to a more humanoid appearance of an older man. Evident by the deep wrinkles on his long, square face to the gray hair swept under a green cap that matched the rest of the outfit with a shiny golden emblem.

The man pulls away. His bushy brows knit together, lips pursed together as he tugs at his long facial hair.

Deep in thought, huh? For whatever reason it may be, he, Charlie? Felt bad for the older man. Terribly awful. Guilty.

Who was this man? Something told him he should know who this is, right? He should trust him, shouldn't he? Its someone that really cared about him. Yet he can't help to squint his eyes dubiously as the cogs in his brain turns, processing. Saw he's in a room with tiled floors and walls. Laying in a bed, he can raise one hand up, the other stuck to his side in hard bandages. He kept glancing toward the man who sits down with arms crossed over his chest.

Only to draw a blank and bristle at the old man's pitied expression upon realizing that he can't remember. Watches him vibrating, raising an unsteady hand and clung, pulls at his matted hair. He gritted his teeth, tongue pokes at the gaping holes of the missing and the sharp edges of the broken.

"Its alright" The man spoke again, sounding better, more stable, sad. He eases up when a hand is placed on his arm, grounds him. It didn't entirely stop the tremors, just settled into a light tremble.

His back hurts though, spasming as he curls up in an odd angle to compensate. Opening his mouth. He wants to talk. Let everything flow off his tongue.

"You don't have to speak. I… Don't think you can, can you?"

Right, a reminder that its no longer possible as he touches his neck, felt those thick scars then drops his hand to his lap. He couldn't if he tried to because that monster cloaked in midnight blue and stolen jewels stole from him.

"Hey. Hey. Don't"

Snapping his head back, he shields his face, over wet eyes. The old man awkwardly pats his back. It doesn't help, it makes it worse.

"You're safe. You're back home"

Balling his fists and wedging them deep in an eye socket then in the other and rubbed them feverishly. Drying whatever tears that came.

Is he really safe?

Somehow the man let's him 'cry it out' for however long until he's exhausted and left with bruised eyes.

Why does he get to be emotional? He had no right.

"You uh, made quite the entrance"

He nods in agreement? Can feel the impact lingering from head to toe. The people here taking care of him murmured about it when they thought he wasn't awake.

"I've got to ask simple questions. Ones I can imagine you can answer with either a nod or shake of the head, okay?" The man pulls out a notepad and pen. "You are capable to answering them for me, yes?"

Limply acknowledging the question with a shrug, he heaves a shallow breath. Yet as it was promised, the questions were simple to follow. Easy to answer. Though they did get tougher and taxing. The details didn't make sense, most slip from his memory, forever a cut scene that couldn't be stitched together.

"Were there anyone else with you?"

He shook his head. There wasn't anyone up in space with him. Well that wasn't entirely true, was it? Tossed his head suddenly in the direction of the old man, the joints in his neck loudly pops as he concentrates.

"Was there?" The writing on the pad stops halfway of a sentence. With his good hand stretched out and his fingers bent, taps the bar a couple times. It was the best thing he could think of to get his point across. Rapt attention is set on him, on his fingers.

Which he repeats.

Taps once.

When he arrives to a cold steel room, he isn't alone. In the corner of the room is a figure on the ground, hands engulfed by odd cuffs and wearing a green uniform. So during his short time in the room, the figure stayed motionless. Wouldn't move besides a shuffle and groan. It decided to ignore him despite his questions.

Twice. Thrice.

Another came as a pair some mysterious time later. He thought he recognized them. They were tipsy and stumbling, all the while joking. They're clearly drunk? No point getting it into their heads how screwed they were. Booze was their in the ignorantly blissful bloodstream.

Fourth tap, fifth right after. All came and went, nothing special. The sixth stupidly fought them, threw insults. Seventh tried bargaining, pleading, going on of a family. It didn't end well. None of this went well.

Then the eight tap on the metal bar.

Stood by the eighth's body, breath caught in his lungs, in shock that he hadn't realized what happened until felt a hand cruelly smack his shoulder. He was so close. He turns to face the unknowns' hand yet the face belonging to it was blurry.

"Eight people?" Thankfully the man picked up on what he was trying to explain. So his good hand rocked back and forth detecting an uncertainty. It could be more that came before him and surely after. "… I'm afraid to ask. Are any alive?"

That he knows for sure, shook his head and the man deflated at his answer. Why would the other act so surprised?

"I'm so sorry"

Screams echoed in his head playing on loop. Both human and mechanical with the latter droning the prior. All the while his plane is set ablaze as the jet engines emit thick puffs of smoke.

Protocol was followed, he steels himself and remembered grabbing the radio to send out a message. Then after hastily with a death's vice grips the wheel and using his strength to stabilize the shaking plane. He reassured the two people on board, past his shoulder, voice wavering in forced cheer.

It did jack shit.

Nothing he did helped if not made things so much worse. The fire engulfed nearly his entire plane, his protective bubble and it's so hot and intense that he couldn't attempt an escape past the smoke. Oddly the flames hadn't reached him in the cockpit and how he slipped out was a mystery itself.

What he does distinctively recall is being upside down, hung up by the long, sturdy vines wrapped around his ankle up to his thigh. His red headset lays on the ground, attached by frayed wires, emitting dead static.

Nobody would hear him scream or cry in agony, swinging in circles, hitting the trees around him as he struggled to get free. They couldn't see how he blindly yanks his blade from his side or when the vines finally snap loose after slicing it and accidentally at his leg as it drops him head first into the mud below.

Nor do they understand the concept of disjointedly observing the plane he grew to appreciate for years, hung hundreds of feet above his twisted body as it slowly char to ash. Knowing that for a fact he's the lone survivor.

Time became foreign for him, only told by the switching of the sun's heat and moon's chills. On the third day, maybe the fourth, he groggily crawled out from the sinking pit with moist soil shoved under his nails. The mud doing an iffy job to meld close the open wounds seeping puss that the maggots love to eat.

He couldn't go too far, his body unwilling to go any further and leaned against the same tree he got hung upside down from, the one he kept hitting his body on. The tree's bark scrapping the back of his head and he didn't have the energy to check the damage. Blood already soaks everything he touches. Death enveloped every aspect of his life, carelessly wielding and it didn't matter who it ripped away from him.

If this was how he was supposed to die then he hopes it goes quickly, he doesn't want to be alive. It couldn't get any worse then this. Bur he doubts the universe will be merciful as it sure did love to punish him.

Breathing heavy, he notes the switch blade a short distance from his touch. His fingers grazing the sharp edge, he contemplates on slashing his wrists or throat, stab the blade deep into his chest. Heart pounding, taking slower beats, dying out while he chokes on his blood in the sinking mud.

Doesn't he deserve the slow, painful death befitting him? None of this would've gone ahead if not for his selfish need for a great plan. Then he decided to drop the thought. Why would he humor a stupid idea? What will people say? Think? Do? If they find his corpse.

They see what he did, demanding answers in a demeaning snarl, 'How could he do this? What a coward. Suicide is a selfish cop out. Let him rot in hell for it' They'll say dismissively over his rotting corpse.

A respected pilot is meant to go down with his plane, isn't he? Die an honorable death then rot away like this?

This was his fault for opening up Pandora's box which he'd cheerfully unleashed to the world. Closing his eyes, feeling the crisp air smack his face, he couldn't change it, can't do so with his mistakes and regrets. Despite it he would've switched places with them in an instant if he could.

Then in a blip the cool air is switched with the blazing glory of fie. Once again. But he wasn't exempt this time, finding himself strapped in a chair within an area built of cold, red steel and far smaller then his cockpit.

Lungs filled with black smoke, burning his throat and insides that he coughed up blood then vomit and lastly, an unknown chunky blob. He lets slip a raspy cry, skin bubbling, the pustules climb up his limbs to his torso as the flesh melts right off the bone. Try as he might, he frantically scratches his arms, an attempt to hold up the skin, mold it back together and smears the meaty tears across his face.

Past those tears, the world's spinning and descending too fast for him to truly focus as eventually it crash landed with an impact force strong enough that he's sprawled out on the ground.

Half lucid and helpless, he breathlessly let's a gasp escape. Witnesses blindly as pearly white clouds pushed past the coal colored smoke, sucking him in, letting the world disintegrates to an empty void. The clouds weren't thick by any means when he swings his fist through, smacking a hidden firm object.

Confusion turn to horror when a low hiss arose from the recoiling clouds while hands coated in ash lunge at him. Grabbing at his shoulders, an arm pushing down his chest, it wasn't forceful but more like restraint.

Still he fights and if he could, bite the hands that yanked him closer to the giant figure it belongs to, draw blood if he's lucky.

"Sss" It snaps, startled, he thrashes while struggling to form words until blurting the word out. Short and curt. "Stop"

He stops as requested, ears pricking. That voice. It commanded strict attention. So he allows the hands to handle him. Move him to a better position, made him lay down on a soft surface. The palms pressed flat on his shoulders as one hand inches up to his face, fixing something plastic. Breathing came a bit easier to him now.

"Stay with me" It's gruff voice ordered then softening, "C'mon Charlie"

The nickname and the way its spoken broke the illusion. As the smoke clears, the figure steps in, voice stabilizing, hearing it better in one ear then the other.

His vision clears up slowly as it reveals the ash on the figure's charred face crumbling away to a more humanoid appearance of an older man. Evident by the deep wrinkles on his long, square face to the gray hair swept under a green cap that matched the rest of the outfit with a shiny golden emblem.

The man pulls away. His bushy brows knit together, lips pursed together as he tugs at his long facial hair.

Deep in thought, huh? For whatever reason it may be, he, Charlie? Felt bad for the older man. Terribly awful. Guilty.

Who was this man? Something told him he should know who this is, right? He should trust him, shouldn't he? Its someone that really cared about him. Yet he can't help to squint his eyes dubiously as the cogs in his brain turns, processing. Saw he's in a room with tiled floors and walls. Laying in a bed, he can raise one hand up, the other stuck to his side in hard bandages. He kept glancing toward the man who sits down with arms crossed over his chest.

Only to draw a blank and bristle at the old man's pitied expression upon realizing that he can't remember. Watches him vibrating, raising an unsteady hand and clung, pulls at his matted hair. He gritted his teeth, tongue pokes at the gaping holes of the missing and the sharp edges of the broken.

"Its alright" The man spoke again, sounding better, more stable, sad. He eases up when a hand is placed on his arm, grounds him. It didn't entirely stop the tremors, just settled into a light tremble.

His back hurts though, spasming as he curls up in an odd angle to compensate. Opening his mouth. He wants to talk. Let everything flow off his tongue.

"You don't have to speak. I… Don't think you can, can you?"

Right, a reminder that its no longer possible as he touches his neck, felt those thick scars then drops his hand to his lap. He couldn't if he tried to because that monster cloaked in midnight blue and stolen jewels stole from him.

"Hey. Hey. Don't"

Snapping his head back, he shields his face, over wet eyes. The old man awkwardly pats his back. It doesn't help, it makes it worse.

"You're safe. You're back home"

Balling his fists and wedging them deep in an eye socket then in the other and rubbed them feverishly. Drying whatever tears that came.

Is he really safe?

Somehow the man let's him 'cry it out' for however long until he's exhausted and left with bruised eyes.

Why does he get to be emotional? He had no right.

"You uh, made quite the entrance"

He nods in agreement? Can feel the impact lingering from head to toe. The people here taking care of him murmured about it when they thought he wasn't awake.

"I've got to ask simple questions. Ones I can imagine you can answer with either a nod or shake of the head, okay?" The man pulls out a notepad and pen. "You are capable to answering them for me, yes?"

Limply acknowledging the question with a shrug, he heaves a shallow breath. Yet as it was promised, the questions were simple to follow. Easy to answer. Though they did get tougher and taxing. The details didn't make sense, most slip from his memory, forever a cut scene that couldn't be stitched together.

"Were there anyone else with you?"

He shook his head. There wasn't anyone up in space with him. Well that wasn't entirely true, was it? Tossed his head suddenly in the direction of the old man, the joints in his neck loudly pops as he concentrates.

"Was there?" The writing on the pad stops halfway of a sentence. With his good hand stretched out and his fingers bent, taps the bar a couple times. It was the best thing he could think of to get his point across. Rapt attention is set on him, on his fingers.

Which he repeats.

Taps once.

When he arrives to a cold steel room, he isn't alone. In the corner of the room is a figure on the ground, hands engulfed by odd cuffs and wearing a green uniform. So during his short time in the room, the figure stayed motionless. Wouldn't move besides a shuffle and groan. It decided to ignore him despite his questions.

Twice. Thrice.

Another came as a pair some mysterious time later. He thought he recognized them. They were tipsy and stumbling, all the while joking. They're clearly drunk? No point getting it into their heads how screwed they were. Booze was their in the ignorantly blissful bloodstream.

Fourth tap, fifth right after. All came and went, nothing special. The sixth stupidly fought them, threw insults. Seventh tried bargaining, pleading, going on of a family. It didn't end well. None of this went well.

Then the eight tap on the metal bar.

Stood by the eighth's body, breath caught in his lungs, in shock that he hadn't realized what happened until felt a hand cruelly smack his shoulder. He was so close. He turns to face the unknowns' hand yet the face belonging to it was blurry.

"Eight people?" Thankfully the man picked up on what he was trying to explain. So his good hand rocked back and forth detecting an uncertainty. It could be more that came before him and surely after. "… I'm afraid to ask. Are any alive?"

That he knows for sure, shook his head and the man deflated at his answer. Why would the other act so surprised?