"Blood... there's so much blood..." Yash choked out the words, his lungs burning as he collapsed off his bike.
He hit the pavement hard, his chest heaving with panicked breaths. Behind him, Ram was thrown from the back, landing roughly on the road, both of them staring in paralyzed horror at the crimson staining the road.
"Yash... help me..." Dheeru's voice was a wet, ragged whisper. He lay broken on the road, his left hand a mangled ruin crushed beneath the truck's weight. He was clutching the remains of his own arm with his right hand, blood pouring from a jagged gash on his forehead.
A few feet away, Vini was pinned against the pole, his body twisted at an impossible angle. His eyes were wide and vacant, staring directly at Yash with the hollow stillness of the dead.
Yash scrambled toward Dheeru, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. His own knee was shredded, the skin torn and weeping, causing him to collapse under his own weight.
He hit the pavement, but the adrenaline drove him back up. "Help them! Please, someone help my friends!" he screamed, his voice breaking as a crowd suddenly surged around the wreckage.
He limped forward, clutching his bloodied knee, his eyes locked on Dheeru. "I'm coming, Dheeru! Just hold on!"
Every breath was a jagged blade in Ram's throat. He was weeping, his chest tightening in a terrifying arrest, yet he threw himself forward. "Vini! Stay with me!" he choked out. He used his remaining strength to shoulder his way through the gathering crowd, arms swinging wildly to clear a path.
He fell hard next to the pole where Vini was pinned. In the chaos of his fall. As he hit the ground, Vini's limp, blood-slicked hand slumped onto Ram's head, marking him with a crimson stain that felt heavier than lead.
The truck was long gone, a disappearing ghost in the distance. Yash finally reached Dheeru, but the sight of his friend's mangled, distorted hand sent a jolt of pure terror through him. His hemophobia kicked in instantly; his stomach lurched, and he vomited onto the road, his vision tunnelling as the crowd pressed in on him. He felt the blood drain from his limbs, his hands turning ice-cold and powerless.
Despite the rising bile and the crushing claustrophobia, he reached out a trembling hand to Dheeru's forehead. "You'll be fine," he lied, his voice a shaky whisper. "I'm going to save you. Just stay with me."
Yash scrambled to his feet, his hands trembling as he clawed at his pockets for a phone that wasn't there. Panicked, he turned to the wall of strangers surrounding them. He dropped to his knees, pressing his palms together in a desperate plea.
Blood from a gash on his brow trickled down, stinging his eyes and mixing with his tears. "An ambulance," he wheezed, his chest heaving. "Please, I'm begging you. Call for help!"
A cold, hollow voice echoed in the back of his mind: They aren't going to make it. Yash froze for a heartbeat, the world turning grey.
But then he snapped. He shoved the doubt aside, scooped Dheeru's limp body into his arms, and hauled him upward. "They're going to be fine," he hissed through gritted teeth, as if saying it would make it true. "I'm getting them out of this." With his lungs burning and his legs shaking, he began a desperate, staggering run toward the hospital.
The shock of cold water hitting his face jolted Ram back to reality. He scrambled up, gathering Vini's limp body into his arms and stumbling toward Yash just as the ambulance sirens began to wail. "Move! Get out of the way!"
He screamed at the bystanders, his voice raw from weeping. As he struggled forward, he felt a hollow bitterness in his chest—everyone was watching, but no one was helping.
His tears fell, disappearing into the jagged wound on Vini's head, as he finally reached the open doors of the ambulance and collapsed inside.
As the ambulance sped off, the workers immediately began a desperate attempt at first aid. Yash and Ram were relegated to the corners, silent and broken.
Their school clothes—once bright—were now dark and heavy, saturated with blood. Yash looked down at his hands, watching Dheeru's blood dry in the creases of his skin. The reality of the morning's "plan" felt like a distant, cruel joke compared to the gore currently covering his arms.
Yash suddenly lunged for Ram, clutching his shirt with blood-stained hands. "What happened to us, Ram? How did it come to this?" he wailed, his voice cracking into a sob. Ram grabbed him back, clinging to Yash as his chest began to tighten again. He couldn't answer; the asthma was clawing at his throat, and as the oxygen left him.
The world tilted, and they both fell—two broken boys covered in the blood of their friends, sinking to the floor as the ambulance sped through the indifferent streets.
"Help us with him!" the paramedic barked, but Yash was gone. His limbs felt like lead, his fingers turning cold and useless.
His face went ghostly, then a bruised, ashen blue as his circulation faltered. His head rolled back, his eyes losing focus as the sounds of the ambulance became distant, like they were coming from underwater. He didn't even feel the warm trickle of blood beginning to run from his nose; he was already drifting into the darkness.
SIX HOURS LATER
"My friends... where are they?" Yash's voice was a raw, jagged cry that tore through the quiet of the recovery room. He tried to sit up, but the tug of the IV line connected to his vein held him back. The sight of the clear tube feeding into his arm made his stomach churn, but before he could spiral again, the door swung open.
His parents rushed in, followed closely by a nurse, their faces a blur of relief and deep, lingering sorrow.
His mother flew to his side, her arms wrapping around him with a desperate strength. She pressed her face against his bandaged forehead, her kisses falling like rain across his cheeks. "My son... are you okay? Are you really okay?" she sobbed. His father stood over them, his voice thick with a mixture of exhaustion and relief. "We've been terrified for six long hours, Yash. To see you awake... it's everything." Yash reached out, pulling them both toward him in a tight, trembling embrace.
Yash pulled away, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Are my friends okay?" he demanded, his gaze darting between his mother and father. The room suddenly felt too quiet. His mother's eyes filled with fresh tears, and his father looked away, unable to meet his son's stare. "Just tell me," Yash whispered, his voice breaking. "Please tell me they're fine."
"Ram is okay," his father said, though his gaze remained fixed on the sterile hospital floor. "He had a minor asthma attack from the shock, but the doctors have him stabilized. He's going to be fine." He paused, his voice trailing off, his refusal to look at Yash speaking louder than his words.
And Dheeru? And Vini?" Yash said, his voice rising in pitch. He clutched his father's hands, shaking them as if he could force the truth out. He leaned in, searching his father's eyes with a haunting, desperate intensity. "Are they okay, Dad? Tell me the truth. Why won't you look at me?"
"They're gone," his father finally choked out, his eyes swimming with tears as he looked toward Yash's mother for strength. Yash went rigid, his hands moving to his face in a frantic, numb scrubbing motion as if he could rub the reality away.
"Vini died instantly," his father continued, his voice breaking. "The impact with the pole... it was too much. And Dheeru... they tried, Yash. They really tried. But he had lost too much blood from his arm before they could get him to the table. They couldn't save him."
With a frantic jerk, Yash disconnected himself from the IV and scrambled for the exit. His mother's words followed him like a physical blow: "Yash, stay here! Don't make things worse for those families. They are grieving enough."
He didn't stop until he was outside, the cold air hitting his lungs like ice. He tried to run, but his body was a traitor; he fumbled and swayed, his knees buckling as the weight of his grief finally proved too heavy to carry.
Suddenly, his eyes widened in horror. The distant sound of wailing became deafening as he saw two stretchers being wheeled past, the forms of Dheeru and Vini shrouded in white sheets.
He froze, his heart seizing as he looked into Dheeru's open, lifeless eyes. Clutching his chest as if to keep his own heart from breaking, he forced himself to stand tall, desperate to hold onto their faces one last time before they were gone forever.
Yash tried to bolt toward the stretchers, but he collided with someone in the hallway. It was Ram. Ram grabbed his arms with a desperate, anchoring grip, hauling him back.
When Yash realized who it was, he collapsed against him, his voice a broken wail. "Ram... what happened? They're gone. Our friends are gone, and we're never going to see them again!" He sobbed into Ram's shoulder, the reality finally shattering whatever strength he had left.
Ram shoved him hard against the hospital wall, the impact rattling Yash's bones. Before Yash could speak, Ram delivered a stinging slap across his face, then another, even harder. "You're talking about their death?" Ram screamed, his voice raw. "You murderer! You killed them! I told you to slow down, but you raced like a madman just to impress a girl. You weren't even late!" Yash crumbled to the floor, the silence of the hallway swallowing him whole. Ram turned away, his parting words cutting deeper than the slaps: "I can't be friends with a murderer."
Yash collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he hit the cold floor. His tears were constant, blurring the world as he scrubbed at his face, trying to wash away the memory. But then, a flash of the accident seared through his mind—the screech of tires and Ram's terrified voice screaming, "Slow down, Yash! We're going to die!"
He clutched his head, his fingers digging into his scalp as the truth finally broke him. "It was me," he whispered into the empty hallway. "I killed them." He lay there, motionless, his eyes fixed on the hospital exit where the night had swallowed the world.