He Hurt
He hurt. That was the one fact that kept him from falling back into the darkness that beckoned him. He hurt. He slowly, painfully fought to open his eyes, before gasping and then snapping them shut again, which hurt as well. He felt his breath catch, and his ribs informed with flashes of agony that breathing was going to be a painful occupation for a while as well.
He groaned. He heard the sound and he felt it rise slowly, torturously from his chest and he knew that it came from him, and yet it sounded detached and faded - as if he was listening from a great distance. He knew that he was in trouble. Again, slowly he opened his eyes and this time the pain of the sharp light was slightly more manageable and he was able to blink owlishly at what was in front of him.
He frowned. He did not recognise what he was looking at; it was dark in colour and contained silver bits, and he felt sure that he really ought to know what it was, and yet the memory kept fluttering outside of his understanding.
He closed his eyes again, and this time he couldn't gather the energy to re-open them. He slipped back into unconsciousness and was not even aware that he had.
***
His second awakening was different from his first, as he was able to open his eyes and this time the fuzziness didn't cloud his vision after the first few seconds. He blinked a few times and was surprised when the object in front of him suddenly sharpened into focus. He was looking at the upside down dashboard of his car. He blinked again and wondered how he had fallen into such a position. His upper body was stretched across the seat into the passenger section and he was leaning over the seat into the foot well. He tried to move and let out a yelp of agony. He was trapped; his left leg was firmly caught in the crumpled wreckage of the steering wheel column that had been forced back and into the driver's seat. He swallowed hard; had he been sitting in that particular seat, then he would have been dead with what looked like half the engine shoved up into him. He realised with a gasp that he was trapped in his car.
He blinked a couple of times and tried to recall what had happened. He frowned; his memory just was not there. He tilted his head awkwardly and squinted out the passenger door, which was lying open like a gaping wound, the door half-hanging off. He could see glass from the door's window and the windscreen lying scattered around him. For some reason this sight more than any other brought home the fact that he had been involved in a car accident.
Licking at suddenly dry lips, he opened his mouth and called, "Ben... Benny?" He was shocked at how weak his voice sounded and he coughed feebly as he tried to call again, pain flaring from his injuries but he pushed it aside as panic started to set in. There was no sound and no reply. He felt his fear increase and he struggled, trying to turn, pushing back the agony, desperate to see his friend. He suddenly had a crystal clear memory of Benton Fraser, the Mounty who had come to America in search of his father's killer, sitting in the passenger side of the car, warning Ray, quite calmly, that he was taking the winding corners of the narrow steep roadway too sharply. Ray Vecchio could clearly remember snarling back a reply and then... then nothing.
He attempted to move again, but the torture of this action proved too much and he had to content himself with just straining his upper body and neck around to see if he could find his friend, who had obviously been tossed from the car.
He gasped with renewed fear when he saw, just within his sight, the prone upper body of his friend. Benton could not have been more than three feet away from his position. Slowly, painfully, he reached out a hand and was just able to touch his friend's outstretched hand, barely brushing his fingers. He snatched his hand back when he felt the coldness of the other.
He swallowed hard and tried to move again, pulling at his lower body, trying to get free, but he had to slump back in defeat as the world darkened around him. He was not going to get out of the car any time soon, and the more he looked at Benton the greater his fear grew, as he could now clearly see the blood that had spread out from and across the other man's head. It looked as if he had lost an awful lot of blood, maybe too much for a man to survive. The wound looked like half his head had been caved in, but Benton's face was turned away from him and his thick, lush hair prevented Vecchio from seeing if it had been fatal.
Vecchio felt his world suddenly narrow to the prone body just outside of his reach. He attempted to twist again, this time finding that he was able to move slightly, so that he could take in more of his friend's body. He hissed at the pain his action caused and, seeing Fraser's twisted lower body, he wished that he had not attempted the move. There was no way that Benton - or anyone - could have survived such abuse: his lower body looked as if it had been twisted completely around, the leg at an angle that made Vecchio shudder. The Mounty gave the impression of a rag doll that had been tossed aside by a nasty child, who made sure that as much damage as possible had been inflicted on their discarded toy by their bad temper.
A cry rose from Ray and, before he could stop himself, it transformed into a desperate wail, a banshee scream that had no right coming from human lips. Once started, he found that he was unable to stop the noise until finally he gasped, no breath left in his body. His sharp intake of air caused his broken ribs to scrape together, which in turn caused him to start to struggle to free himself. He desperately needed to get to his friend. He was not even aware when the darkness once more rose up and swallowed him.
***
Dusk was slowly crawling across the landscape when he next opened his eyes. He blinked and slowly groaned as consciousness and memory returned. Craning his neck, he again looked at the twisted, broken body of his best friend.
"Benny..." he mouthed, his throat so dry it only came out as a gasp. The Mounty was dead; the one man Ray had honestly thought to be immortal now lay lifeless on the ground. It seemed wrong to Vecchio that he was not able to reach or comfort his friend. His rational mind informed him that Fraser was long past the caring of a friend, and yet, yet... Ray wanted to be there for his partner, wanted him to know just how much of a friend he had become - how much he was still needed and how badly he would be missed.
"Benny..." he gasped again, this time unable to stop the gentle sweep of tears as they slowly trickled down his unshaven and torn cheeks.
Fraser was dead. No more would Ray Vecchio look into the smiling eyes of his friend, hear him explain in great detail why logically some fantastic, twisted reasoning would prevail, nor see him lick another piece of dirt, gum, or just the bottom of a shoe that Fraser came across during the course of an investigation. Ray longed to see his friend's hands move, if only a twitch. Just to see the air-empty chest rise and fall. He kept staring at the still body, as if by will alone he could bring his friend back.
Vecchio closed his eyes and wished that death had taken him instead. How much easier it would have been if it had been him that had been snatched from earth. How was he supposed to live, to continue with the knowledge that he was responsible for killing this oh-so special person? How many people's lives had he inadvertently affected for the worse by snuffing out this special light of a man, who was always there to lend a helping hand, to give guidance and support with a tale of his childhood, or just to share his vast wealth of knowledge with another lonely person.
Ray gasped back a sob as he realised that he himself had been the loneliest of people until that fateful day when the Mounty had turned, standing straight and tall outside the holding cell where he had been running a scam. Benton had prevented him from being charged with entrapment, with just a few precise words and his keen eye. The whole scam of the other undercover cop had fallen apart, thereby saving Ray Vecchio's career: the only career he had ever really wanted. What would he have done if that choice had been taken from him by an internal investigation?
How could Vecchio survive the loss of his best friend? How could he ever face his family - especially Francesca, his younger sister - again, knowing that they knew it was his hands, his steering or lack of, that had taken the life of a dear friend. How could the death of one man affect so many and ultimately take the life of a second?
That was when Ray realised that he did not want to and would not survive the death of his friend. He could not accept the responsibility of what he had done, who he had murdered as surely as if he had placed a loaded gun against his head and pulled the trigger. There was no living without him, nor was there a way to exist with the knowledge of what his blind temper had done. He knew that he had speeded up the car when Fraser had protested, had done it on purpose just to prove that he knew what he was doing, but it had gone disastrously wrong and it had not cost him his life, but Fraser. He hung his head and wept again.
With that thought came the comforting knowledge that he still carried his gun, strapped tightly against his upper chest, snugly fitted under his shoulder. He had not lost it when he had been thrown across the seat. With a shaking hand he reached up and attempted to pull the gun free, but it was stubborn and difficult and he was not able to cleanly pull it from his shoulder holster. He struggled with it for several long seconds before he gasped in defeat and slumped down, struggling to gather his breath before he started again. Now that his decision had been made he felt strangely eager to carry it out.
As he fought to free the weapon he considered his action. His mother was a devout Catholic and would know that her only son had killed himself. He hoped that she would understand and forgive him; he knew that she would pray for him - that her prayers alone might be the only reason he eventually ascended to heaven. He was fully aware that he was committing a mortal sin and consigning his soul to hell by this action, and yet the rational part of his mind insisted that he was only doing what he had to do. He deserved to be punished, and this was his only way of ensuring that he was indeed properly punished for the despicable act that he had committed.
He fought for his gun again with renewed vigour and somehow, finally managed to pull the weapon free of its protective casing. The gun felt heavy and alien in his hand, and he gasped as the true impact of his decision suddenly crashed in on him. Yet, it did not sway him from his course of action. He knew what he had to do and he would gladly do it, as he no longer wanted to face the cold, lonely world he had lived in before the arrival of the red-clad Mounty from north of the border.
The weight of the gun was now almost comfortable in his relaxed grip. He clasped his hand a couple of times just to caress the handle. He had carried this same gun since his first days as a detective; he had been so proud of that gold badge. He knew that his father would never be pleased, that his deceased father had no use for the police or what they stood for, but Ray had always wanted to be a police officer, had dreamed of it and desired it above all else.
Yet now he would have gladly become the lowest of scum life if he had only known what carrying that badge would mean, of the life it would one day lose because of it. He tilted his head once more and looked at the body of Benton Fraser. It had not moved, and Ray really had not expected it to. He blinked back the tears, but was unable to prevent the wetness from continuing to slide down his cheeks.
He was such a coward. He had never before thought of himself in that light, had always thought that he was a strong person, and yet he now knew with total certainty that he was completely unprepared and unable to survive his friend's death. No words could explain the pain he was now feeling, the agony that went far beyond the suffering of his trapped leg and broken ribs; the torment that twisted like a coiled biting snake in his stomach. He wished that he had not survived the actual car crash, like his friend, and cursed his bad luck that he had lived one second beyond Benton Fraser.
Now he was about to correct that error of the gods and, with a slightly shaking hand that grew steadier with each inch that it rose, he gently closed his eyes and guided the gun up until it rested under his chin, where it rested warmly against his cold skin.
He pulled breath into his lungs and winced at the tearing pain, but he roughly pushed that away. He did not have time for that. Gathering his inner strength, he took another steadying breath, counting out as he did so... he would pull the trigger on the third outward breath.
One
Breathe
Two
Breathe
Thr....
"Ray?" It was just a whisper, more a faint gasp, but it stilled Ray Vecchio's hand as surely as the steel grip of a mad man. He blinked open his eyes and let out a gasp of pure shock as he saw the face of his friend tilted towards him. Squinting up at him, Fraser blinked dribbling blood from his vision. The broken voice spoke again, this time a frown sounding in his tone, "What.... What are... you doing?"
The gun fell from nerveless fingers as Vecchio attempted to come to terms with this sudden change of fortune. He actually felt robbed by the fact that he could no longer fire the gun. His excuse had passed, and he was not sure if he wanted to weep for his own life or that of his friend, who he had honestly thought dead.
"Benny..." he gasped, now openly weeping as he watched the other man stagger up, fall, raise a hand to his blood-soaked forehead, wipe the blood away and move forwards towards the shattered car. He clambered on hands and knees, as he was unable to rise to his feet.
Once Fraser reached the car, he leant back against the torn door, using it for meagre support, and looked in at his friend owlishly. "My head hurts," he said, his tone that of any normal conversation.
"Looks like you banged it," Ray confirmed, reached out a shaking hand and carefully touching the skin near the edge of the jagged cut that disappeared into Fraser's matted hair. It was still stuck together by the blood, but the injured policeman could see that the bleeding had stopped.
"It's getting cold," Fraser said, looking around, then turning his attention back to his friend he asked, "Why are you crying?" His tone was full of genuine curiosity, like a child discovering an adult doing something it didn't understand.
Ray lifted his hand and wiped at his own face, surprised to feel just how wet it was. "I'm..." he began, then stammered to a stop. What could he say, what words could he use to explain his nearly fatal actions? Realising that he could not, he attempted to shrug, gasped and said instead, "I thought your legs... back was broken, they were so badly twisted."
Fraser looked down at the legs in question as if still expecting them to be twisted, then he slowly blinked a couple of times, as if drawing a memory up from some great depth and replied, "No... I am very limber... nearly double-jointed, especially my back. Once I twisted nearly right around and it took me two days to get straight again. Ever since then I've been able to dislocate something back there and twist my bottom half... baffled the doctor at Wind Willow Creek," he added with a raised eyebrow. He really could not understand why the doctors had been so baffled. If he could do it, then it was possible... end of discussion.
"Fraser!" Ray snapped, before he gulped back the urge to scream that consumed him. He could not believe that only a few minutes ago he had been prepared to put a bullet into his skull because he thought this man was dead, and now he was losing his temper because Fraser was talking gibberish at him.
Vecchio knew that some of Fraser's attitude was due to the bang on his head, so he drew in a short, steadying breath and asked, unable to hide his concern, "How do you feel, Benny?"
The man in question blinked a couple of times, then slowly smiled and replied, "Quite well, thank you... once the earth stops spinning that is." He suddenly raised both his hands and, placing one under his chin and the other at the top of his head, he sharply twisted his head. Vecchio winced at the loud popping noise this produced, but Fraser just said, "Now, that's much better." He smiled broadly at his trapped friend.
"How bad are you hurt, Ray?" Benny suddenly asked.
"I don't know... my leg's trapped and I think I've broken a few ribs."
"We need to get help... before it gets too dark and cold... it can get quite cold out here in these hills at night." With that he reached up and over Ray and slipped his mobile phone from his Armani suit jacket pocket. The police officer had not even considered using it to contact help; it had totally slipped his mind in his shock at the thought of losing his friend.
"Get help... fine," Ray stammered, blinking hard. The stress and his injuries were starting to creep up on him, and he felt incredibly tired all of a sudden.
Fraser smiled when his call was connected and gave clear and precise directions to their location, to where they were now resting at the bottom of the gully into which they had driven. As he snapped the phone closed, Benny said, "They will be here shortly, now all we have to do is wait." He suddenly leant back against the door once more, exhaustion clearly showing on his face.
"Fraser?" Vecchio suddenly questioned, his previous fear rising at his friend's obvious pain, "are YOU all right?"
The Mounty swallowed hard and, opening his eyes, he clearly met the look of the man beside him and said, "I thought you were dead. I woke up a while back and you were unmoving and I was unable to move at the time, to reach you... I couldn't see if you were breathing and I believed you were dead."
Ray bit back his own words and, taking a painful breath he stated, "I very nearly was." He was unable to prevent his look from slipping to the disused gun that lay by his side.
Benton looked up, his gaze clear and deep as he replied, "I know... me too."
The silence that settled on them was strangely comfortable, as if an unspoken pact had been signed, and it lasted until the blare of sirens pierced the air around them.
THE END
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