Chapter eighty

Connor

Connor lay in the dark shelter of his cavernous prison. He found if he lay in such a way where a shard of rock dug into his lower back, he didn't hurt as much. He briefly thought about how he owed this part of his life to the Danel suit he wore. It had taken the main brunt of the fall. Without which, he would have most certainly died instantly.

But he hadn't. Instead he lay in the first cool section of this earth that he had found. A thin strip of light shone down in front of him but didn't hit him. He could be thankful for that. The rays were still deadly and he didn't fancy the idea of burning alive.

No, he wasn't to burn alive. His fate was a lot simpler than that. He glanced down at his leg and the gaping wound staring innocently out at him, peering through the thin tear of his Danel suit.

He was exposed, and the constant tremors controlling his hands doubled with the crippling pain growing in intensity in his stomach and throughout his muscles confirmed this. He looked longingly at the empty syringe he had used an hour ago. It had provided such a sweet source of relief for his symptoms but now it was gone. All other painkillers had been lost in the fall. He wasn't going to get out of this easy and the past excruciating three hours had been proof of that. He had stripped his Danel suit down to his hips, leaving the top half of him fully exposed to the air. He had wanted to feel free in his last moment, not restricted under the face of a metallic substance.

His mind floated to his memories of the woman he loved. His Christie. Hoping that she would be able to provide an ease to his pain once more, as she had done so many times before, even when she had not been aware.

He thought of her face, her dazzling smile, sharp wit and sarcasm. She was so alive, so passionate. She loved and felt everything at such a strong level that he was completely in awe of it. He thought of her passion, her anger, and he was reminded of their last conversation. Her tears, her harsh words. The hurt that was evident on her face for him leaving her.

"I'm so sorry, baby," he whispered and allowed a new wave of pain to flow throughout him.

No, this wouldn't do. He wouldn't remember her this way. He'd remember a better memory. He reached into an inside pocket and drew out her picture. There she was smiling at Connor as he kissed her cheek, there was a look of resigned amusement on her face. She had just had to endure another of his jokes and, if he remembered correctly, this photo had been taken the moment after another of her freely given eye rolls.

He looked at the photo and thought of all the conversations he had had with her. Of the loud teasing, of the late night jokes, of the countless hours where they just lay and stared at each other. Sharing their day, their dreams and their pain.

He thought of her temper and of the way that she could so freely express herself with him whilst they both knew that it made no difference to how they felt about each other. Neither would hold a grudge. Both would fold instantly. He thought about their last fight once more and prayed that she would remember that he didn't care and wouldn't die hating her. That he still loved her.

He became angry at himself then, knowing that Christie had once more been right. He shouldn't have gone. He shouldn't have left her and now she had to keep on going... Forever, without him. He hated himself more than anything for forcing her worst fears onto her.

He placed Christie's photo on the rock in front of him, positioned himself so that another rock was pressed further into himself and alleviating some more pain. Then he stared. He stared at the photo and remembered.

He remembered throughout further spasms, further convulsions and crippling pain. And then he didn't remember anymore and it was over. A lifeless body lay where Connor had once been.

Connor Mayhew had died.

...

Peace out my lovelies.