Slow Burn
David adjusted his eyes to the dim light of what appeared to be a sterile, white room. He couldn't lift his arms, but that's ok, they were sore and heavy. He thought only to lay on the cold gurney, sure that a nurse would tend to him soon.
He examined the double sink to his left, staring in wonder at the steel tools laying on a damp drying mat. A sterling clock ticked away on the tiled wall behind him. He couldn't move his neck, but that was ok. A nurse would surely be there soon.
A floral calendar littered with illegible writing lay on the wall in front of him. He strained to read it and realized his glasses were missing. A bedside table was nowhere to be seen, but that was ok. He'd have company shortly, he figured.
Dave wondered how he'd landed himself in this place. He remembered his commute to work that day, merging on to the freeway as he turned up Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song" on the radio. What he didn't remember, however, was meeting Susan on the ferry as he did every morning, as she shook her tartan umbrella (the rain has been relentless lately) or the way she laughed at his obviously stupid jokes.
Oh, Susan....
He heard footsteps echoing through the corridor. At last, the nurse!
He was so thirsty, he could hardly breathe, and his skin ached as if he lay on sunlit pavement.
Dave's expression curiously remained indifferent as a man dressed in white entered the room with his intern. The man, wearing a photo badge, was Arthur Collins, M. O.; his assistant remained nameless.
"David R. Peters, aged 49. Time of death. 6:21AM, October 27th, 2015."
"But sir, I'm not..." David thought, unable to even sigh.
"Cause of death", Mr. Collins continued, "trauma following immolation in motor vehicle accident."
David couldn't even gasp.
"Gabriel, please close the patient's eyes."
"Yes, sir", Collins' intern bleakly responded.
"We'll begin by making a Y-incision on the patient's chest, extending well into the abdomen....."