I was vaguely aware that the semi-driver was pounding on his window frantically, but my brain was still trying to solve the intense puzzle that had sprawled out in front of me.

Not a single person on the square block had moved yet. Not that there were very many people around, to begin with. When I say things were moving in slow motion, I mean it. Each movement I made seemed to leave a trail or afterimage—kind of the same way that your hand does if you wave at a computer monitor. I seemed to be moving faster than everyone around.

With confusion prevalent in my mind and my attention distracted by the strange matrix-like effect I was experiencing, I squinted my eyes. I looked towards the few people on the other side of the street, my gaze locking onto a familiar girl similar in age to me, and we both shared a moment of "what the fuck just happened."

Meeting the eyes of the other bystanders surrounding the scene of the accident, I noticed all of them were frozen in place like a deer in headlights.

Why wasn't anyone trying to help?

Why is Chase on the ground?

Why was the semi-driver pounding on his windows?

I couldn't find answers, so I did the only thing my brain would let me do. I acted impulsively and ran towards the truck, leaving my best friend on his knees, looking hopeless.

I had to get closer to what everyone was gawking at, and it was apparent they had a better view of the scene than I did. But what was so shocking that no one would help the guy freaking out in the semi's cab? Traffic had come to a complete stop, so I slowly moved toward the crippled vehicles.

But on my trek, one of my feet caught on something solid, making me sprawl out onto the ground, simultaneously smacking my forehead on the pavement. The impact made me see stars and caused my eyes to start watering instantly, and a warm trickle of fluid leaked into one of my eyes, causing me to swipe it away to clear my vision immediately.

Letting a curse out under my breath and looking behind me, my eyes fell on the object that had caused my collapse to the ground, but what I saw I couldn't believe; in fact, it even made me start to laugh a bit because of how ridiculous and abnormal it seemed. The object my foot had caught on was a severed adult arm.

I didn't yell, panic, or freak out; I just went numb and laughed awkwardly as I stared at the arm that had triggered my sudden collapse. I analyzed it within milliseconds, my ice-blue eyes taking every inch of the limb into account. It was heavily tattooed. The visible skin that didn't have ink was pale, just like mine. A small, thin trail of blood led from it to the semi, and the intricate colored linework of the tattoo seemed familiar for some reason; I could see the designs mold into the Mythical Phoenix.

I had seen this design before, but where? Numbly, my sight drifted from the arm to the bed of the pickup, which was just as cleanly severed. The truck's hood featured a giant fiery bird depicted in a cheesy flame decal.

My brain was slowly putting all the pieces together. The truck, tattooed arm, Chase falling to the floor. My eyes widened in horror as realization clicked into place; only one person had all of these characteristics in common: Chase's older brother Tristian.

NOW, I began to panic. I couldn't breathe. The only response I could do was kick at the severed arm to get it as far away from me as possible. I backpedaled quickly, unable to make a sound, as I realized that I had just seen Chase's older brother, his awesome older brother, who used to teach us how to street fight when we were younger, who would let us use swear words whenever we wanted.

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The same older brother who used to be forced to babysit us because we were idiot kids who couldn't be left alone. The Same older brother I viewed as my sibling; I had just seen his truck get obliterated by a Semi.

As if someone pressed play, the sounds of the world, which had been muted, suddenly flooded my ears—mixing with the numbness in my chest and the memories I had of Tristian. It was all too much. My head started to pound, and I looked back toward Chase, my best friend, who was now on the floor, crying and looking defeated.

He had known from the beginning that it was his brother. Why had it taken me 10 million years to realize it? How many times had I sat in that truck? Yet I didn't even recognize that it was in front of me, destroyed.

"No, he can't be…." I heard Chase murmur in agony. "It's not Tristian; it can't be; there's no way. My brother's at work, yeah, that's where he is; this isn't his car. It's just a coincidence, a funny coincidence." Chase didn't move. He just stayed on the sidewalk, laughing hysterically in denial.

Still numb, I sat motionless, looking from my friend to the twisted wreckage yards away. I had to see it. I had to be without a doubt sure that it was him if not for my peace of mind, then for my oldest friend's.

The only problem was my legs weren't working at all. It was like they weren't there to begin with. This thought brought the image of the arm back into my head like a flashbang going off in my mind, instantly making me grab my legs to be sure they were still attached, which they were.

The slight scare about my possibly amputated legs gave me enough strength to find my footing and stand up.

The truck driver was still pounding on his door and screaming for someone to help him, but I, like everyone else, just ignored his pleas for help and continued moving around the vehicle's nose.

The Faint sound of sirens in the distance came into earshot, but my brain did what my ears wouldn't, and it compartmentalized the sounds into the back of my mind. I had a mission, and it needed to be completed. I had to verify what was on the other side of the truck.

My innate stubbornness refused to let me accept that it was indeed Tristan's car. Even though I had just tripped over an arm identical to his, that just wasn't enough evidence for me. I needed more; I needed to know without a doubt that it was him.

I rounded the front of the semi, and the scene before me was utter chaos. The Mangled pieces of the two vehicles were everywhere. Oil and gasoline mixed with blood and asphalt created a strange smell that reminded me of the scent you get from burning multiple fragrances of candles at the same time, but instead of just letting the candles burn, you toss hair into each of the open flames.

The Connection between my brain and eyes had finally caught up. My eyes darted back and forth as my brain registered each piece of information available.

A mangled body lay several feet away from the pickup truck's Cabin. Blood had pooled around him, and shrapnel was embedded in nearly every visible inch of the person lying in the middle of the street's skin.

I slowly crept forward toward the center of the wreckage. The sounds of glass breaking behind me didn't tear my attention from the body that was now less than 10 feet away. I could see that the person was lying face-first on the asphalt. It was him.

It Was Tristian, but the scene wasn't what you would expect for as much gore and metal spread across the road. As I approached him, I could see his chest's sharp rise and fall, but each breath was jagged. He was struggling to breathe, and not only had he lost his right arm but also his right leg.

His face was almost unrecognizable, but I could tell; I could tell it was him, and instead of breaking down, I went into survival mode. Well, not precisely survival mode but more like a recovery mode. He was still alive but had lost a lot of blood, and I could tell he didn't have long.

I wasn't sure HOW I could tell that by just looking at him; it's not like I had any medical training short of being in the hospital a lot growing up and watching medical shows on TV. Still, somehow, I knew that he was only a hair's length away from his final ragged breath.

I ran to his side and looked down at him; the strong man I had known my entire life lay before me as a crumpled, destroyed husk of the person I knew. Ripping off my backpack, I dug through my spare clothes, found the two t-shirts I had packed because I was staying at Chase's house, and pressed them against the nub that was what remained of his arm.