linebyline (practice): In a low bed
"KITT."
The sound of her own voice brought her awake, but awareness came filtering in slowly, in stages.
"KITT."
The name sounded rough against her tongue; the k too harsh, the t too soft, almost like tssh. Was that the reason why he hadn't answered, because he didn't know she was calling him?
It was then she realized she was wet--soaking wet, with cold little needles of water drumming on her head, on her back, on her arms. She opened her eyes and the world swayed into existence. She discovered that she was lying facedown in a low bed of concrete--a drainage ditch, to be exact.
Why was she out in the rain in a drainage ditch?
Blearily she tried to raise her head, but stopped when the movement sent splinters of hot pain down her spine. Groaning, she laid her head back down in its ice-cold puddle.
"KITT." Slowly, oh so slowly, she moved her left wrist nearer her mouth. Her right arm was numb from being pinned underneath her (at least she hoped that was the reason), and moving it was also a slow, agonizing process. She stretched out her fingers, noticing that the skin and nails were stained with red. "KITT, you there?"
Exhausted, she let go of the button and let her head fall against the comlink. KITT please where are you?
"I'm here," came the tinny voice. "Lay still. Help is on the way."
She smiled. "Thanks." Her body felt so heavy, like it could sink effortlessly into the hard surface below.
"Kyrie! Kyrie, wake up!" The voice shrilled in her ear. "You have a concussion. You mustn't fall asleep."
Ah. That explained the little man with the jackhammer inside her skull. "What happened?"
"You were chasing Byron Durkham," KITT explained, as sirens began to wail in the distance. "He climbed the fence and you went after him."
She grimaced. "Is he a boxer?"
"I'm sorry, Kyrie, I don't have that kind of data. Why?"
"Well, either he's got a good left hook, or I slipped on a banana peel."
"Fortunately for your ego--but not so fortunate for your brain--it was the former."
She managed a smile, though that hurt too. "Figures. He didn't listen when his momma told him never to hit a girl."
"There is a strong possibility that Durkham grew up without the presence of his mother," KITT supplied. "Data on youths who display delinquent behavior points to--"
The world was beginning to spin, and a sudden wave of nausea washed over her. "KITT, hon, I'm gonna need you to shut up for just a bit, okay?"
"...I'm sorry, Kyrie; I can't do that."
"Why not?"
"I'm attempting to keep you alert and awake. Going to sleep when you have a concussion is not a good idea, to say the least."
She sighed. He was right. "So...heard any good jokes lately?"
She knew all of his jokes (they were all horrible) but she listened and laughed (gently) at the appropriate times. Then the paramedics arrived and everything became a big blur for a while. Through it all, she heard his voice--patient, steady, unchanging. She clung to it in a sea of tilt-a-whirl uncertainty.
Much later, after confusion and lights and nauseating motion had stilled into the pressure of a bandage on her head, a soft pillow, and the reassuring glow of afternoon filtering around the edges of the blinds, Kyrie lay curled on her side, listening to the clear, steady voice of her partner. It took a moment, but she realized that he was reading Anna Karenina.
"KITT?"
He stopped. "Yes, Kyrie?"
"Can...can I sleep now?"
There was a short pause; if he were human, she could envision his closing the book and laying it aside. "Yes, Kyrie. You can sleep now. The doctors said they were going to keep you for 24 hours for observation, but that you were just fine."
The pillow smelled strongly of bleach, but she pulled it toward her and wrapped her arms around it. "G'night, KITT."
"Goodnight, Kyrie. Sweet dreams."
-END-
The sound of her own voice brought her awake, but awareness came filtering in slowly, in stages.
"KITT."
The name sounded rough against her tongue; the k too harsh, the t too soft, almost like tssh. Was that the reason why he hadn't answered, because he didn't know she was calling him?
It was then she realized she was wet--soaking wet, with cold little needles of water drumming on her head, on her back, on her arms. She opened her eyes and the world swayed into existence. She discovered that she was lying facedown in a low bed of concrete--a drainage ditch, to be exact.
Why was she out in the rain in a drainage ditch?
Blearily she tried to raise her head, but stopped when the movement sent splinters of hot pain down her spine. Groaning, she laid her head back down in its ice-cold puddle.
"KITT." Slowly, oh so slowly, she moved her left wrist nearer her mouth. Her right arm was numb from being pinned underneath her (at least she hoped that was the reason), and moving it was also a slow, agonizing process. She stretched out her fingers, noticing that the skin and nails were stained with red. "KITT, you there?"
Exhausted, she let go of the button and let her head fall against the comlink. KITT please where are you?
"I'm here," came the tinny voice. "Lay still. Help is on the way."
She smiled. "Thanks." Her body felt so heavy, like it could sink effortlessly into the hard surface below.
"Kyrie! Kyrie, wake up!" The voice shrilled in her ear. "You have a concussion. You mustn't fall asleep."
Ah. That explained the little man with the jackhammer inside her skull. "What happened?"
"You were chasing Byron Durkham," KITT explained, as sirens began to wail in the distance. "He climbed the fence and you went after him."
She grimaced. "Is he a boxer?"
"I'm sorry, Kyrie, I don't have that kind of data. Why?"
"Well, either he's got a good left hook, or I slipped on a banana peel."
"Fortunately for your ego--but not so fortunate for your brain--it was the former."
She managed a smile, though that hurt too. "Figures. He didn't listen when his momma told him never to hit a girl."
"There is a strong possibility that Durkham grew up without the presence of his mother," KITT supplied. "Data on youths who display delinquent behavior points to--"
The world was beginning to spin, and a sudden wave of nausea washed over her. "KITT, hon, I'm gonna need you to shut up for just a bit, okay?"
"...I'm sorry, Kyrie; I can't do that."
"Why not?"
"I'm attempting to keep you alert and awake. Going to sleep when you have a concussion is not a good idea, to say the least."
She sighed. He was right. "So...heard any good jokes lately?"
She knew all of his jokes (they were all horrible) but she listened and laughed (gently) at the appropriate times. Then the paramedics arrived and everything became a big blur for a while. Through it all, she heard his voice--patient, steady, unchanging. She clung to it in a sea of tilt-a-whirl uncertainty.
Much later, after confusion and lights and nauseating motion had stilled into the pressure of a bandage on her head, a soft pillow, and the reassuring glow of afternoon filtering around the edges of the blinds, Kyrie lay curled on her side, listening to the clear, steady voice of her partner. It took a moment, but she realized that he was reading Anna Karenina.
"KITT?"
He stopped. "Yes, Kyrie?"
"Can...can I sleep now?"
There was a short pause; if he were human, she could envision his closing the book and laying it aside. "Yes, Kyrie. You can sleep now. The doctors said they were going to keep you for 24 hours for observation, but that you were just fine."
The pillow smelled strongly of bleach, but she pulled it toward her and wrapped her arms around it. "G'night, KITT."
"Goodnight, Kyrie. Sweet dreams."
-END-