HT100 #123: Scene It
I might pushing the definition of scene a little bit. But it works in my brain.
Title: Minute Hand
Prompt: #86. Vigil
Notes: Beecher POV, B/K, set during canon (or canon's really close neighbor), unbeta'd
Word Count: 1,031 (I fail at brevity)
I look down at my watch. It’s 12:37 am.
They haven’t cleaned up the blood yet. There’s a trail of it that pools just outside the door. Even in the dim light, I can see it. I can smell the coppery tang of it.
Oh. I haven’t washed my hands. That’s where the smell must be coming from. It’s still on my hands.
I don’t know if I helped any or made it worse moving him. All I know is that when the SORT team called the all clear, the medical personnel ran right by us, straight to the officer down. I had to turn him over to try and stop the bleeding until they finally made time for us lowlife convict scum.
…. that’s a lie. I turned him over because I needed to see his face… needed to see him.
It’s 12:39 am.
My arms and back ache. I think I strained something.
I swear, he weighed nothing when I dragged him to cover. He weighed nothing when I turned him onto his back to apply pressure. I guess that’s adrenaline for you. Nature’s PCP.
I was panicked and I think that I rolled him over too roughly. His back hit the floor hard, his eyes flew open and he gasped. I had not wanted to hurt him, but I was glad he opened his eyes.
For one surreal moment I remember thinking to myself, the red really brings out the blue of your eyes.
I think I was starting to go into shock at that point.
Red was everywhere… I could not tell where he’d been hit. The fraying of his shirt at the entry wound was what finally tipped me off. I braced one hand behind the other, locked my arms, and pressed down hard.
I was keeping things pretty much together until then. The sight of blood, the amount of it spreading out over the floor… I could handle it. But the heat of it… the sickening warmth that spilled between my fingers that I just couldn’t stop… It was all real then. I thought I was going to be sick.
12:42 am.
It’s the middle of the night and I’m sitting up alone on the bottom bunk. I hate this bunk. But tonight I need to be close to him, and I can’t. I find myself cursing how immaculate they insist we keep the pods in Emerald City. His scent clings to his pillow, but it’s not enough. There’s not enough of him here for me.
When I pressed the wound, he had cried out and squeezed his eyes shut. I wanted to cry out for the loss.
He drew a shallow breath and mumbled, “…that cocksucker…” He sounded so indignant, I almost laughed.
Definitely shock.
Then his eyes opened again and they searched for mine. It seemed like he was having trouble finding me even though I was hovering above him. I leaned closer and spoke his name softly.
“Chris.”
He finally focused. I couldn’t even begin to read what was going on behind those blue eyes. “…I’m still Chris…?” he asked in a whisper. He sounded uncertain.
For a moment, I thought he might have gone delirious on me. Then I realized he was asking after my use of his first name, the name I’d only gone back to using after forgiving him for betraying me.
And then I remembered the fight we’d had. The reason I was coming out of the hole.
Oz didn’t make you a bitch. You were born one.
Just remembering it made me flush with anger, but, with him bleeding to death right before me, the anger seemed empty. That conversation in the pod was perhaps one of the most honest conversations he’s ever had with me.
He had been himself. And either I could accept him or I couldn’t.
12:46 am.
A CO shines his light into the pod, and I reflexively bring up my hand to shield my eyes. I hear Mineo’s startled voice.
“Jesus, Beecher, wash your goddamn hands!”
Oh, right. The blood. I forgot.
He keeps the flashlight on me like he’s going to stay there until I do what he says. I swing my legs over the side of the bunk and my feet hit the floor with a loud clap that startles me.
Oh, right. I’m on the bottom bunk. I forgot.
Before I can stand, Mineo tells me, “When you’re done, get back to your bunk and go to sleep. There isn’t going to be any more news tonight.”
The light moves away and I hear him muttering under his breath.
I stay sitting on the bunk. This bunk, this blood. It’s all I’ve got.
They pushed me away before I could reassure him… before I could let him know that I forgave him, even if he was not sorry. If only they had waited two seconds more, I would have said, “You’ll always be Chris.”
But they pulled me away, and before I knew what was happening, they had swarmed him. I reached for him, called his name over and over, but I don’t know if he heard. I don’t know that he was still conscious. I think they anticipated my reaction, because the men who had grabbed me were SORT, and they threw me into my pod. I heard the hiss of an automated lock.
I couldn’t see anything around the medical technicians. Sounds were muffled. But I kept calling his name. Again and again. Hoping he’d hear me once. Chris, Chris, Chris, Chris.
I only stopped when they lifted the gurney up and he finally came into view once more. He was out cold.
It’s 12:50 am.
I’m wrapped in his blanket. My eyes are closed. I’m trying to feel him.
It works in films. The boy goes off to war, and the moment he dies on some distant battlefield, his lover just knows. Or is it usually his mother that always knows? I can’t remember.
I know I’m reaching. But I’m so helpless.
Will I know when he dies? Will I feel it?
Is he already dead?
It’s 12:51 am.
It’s going to be a long night.