180 Days, Give or Take

by TheInvisibleSwordsman

Summary:

He breathes her in during his final moments. And remembers the last six months of his life. The months with he spent with her. Movie/book mixture. Will 1st person POV.

Chapter 1

As I lay there in the crisp white sheets with her curled into the body which could not feel her soft, loving warmth, my mind unraveled back to the time when I first met her.

Six months ago.

Excruciatingly long. Unendurably long.

Yet now, it all seemed to go by too quickly.

Not so quickly I wished to relive and relish every single miserable, quadriplegic day of that six months.

But quickly enough that I wanted to remember all my time with her in these, the last moments of my life.

Louisa Clark.

If you had told me back before the accident that I would grow to love someone like her, I would have bit back a chuckle and tried to think of a polite response.

Not that I was a bad guy necessarily.

But I liked them blonde. And leggy.

And a good dose more sophisticated and worldly than little Miss Bumblebee Tights.

If you had told me the first day I met her that she would come to pervade my entire being, I would have attempted to roll you down with my chair.

But now, now in these last moments of my life, all I wanted to do was breathe her in.

As much as I could.

Before I let her go.

---

To say my thoughts were black that day would be like saying a clear sky looks blue.

It is evident. It is obvious.

And cannot even begin to describe the darkness suffusing every fiber of my being on that and every day.

And every single day.

I never felt happy. I never felt good. I never felt alive.

Not anymore.

That was why I hated her from the moment my mum opened the sliding doors revealing her.

Tiptoeing. So hesitant, so unsure.

If I could walk again, I sure as hell wouldn't tiptoe.

I would run. I would leap. I would jump and strut and soar.

Hell, I'd even dance.

But here she was on perfectly good working legs and feet.

Swathed in some god-awful costume I wanted to inquire if we were on some reality TV show for mentally challenged.

That toothy, dopey grin and those big, terrified eyes.

That's why I did what I did.

Screeching and howling and making an arse of myself.

Because I wanted to scare her.

Drive her away.

My mum had hired her to keep me from attempting suicide again.

To make me do the one thing that I hated more than anything else at all.

Live.

Selfish bitch.

She didn't want me to live because it was best for me.

She wanted me to best because it was best for her.

Or thought it was.

Though how on God's Earth she would think that was beyond me.

I wanted to shame her too.

Just for that one reason.

Because she wanted me to live.

When all I wanted to do was die.

My 'Left-Footing' as Nathan called it, alarmed my newest minder but she didn't run.

She smiled.

And introduced herself.

I had the thought she might not be so easy crack as I had thought.

I would just have to try harder.

Because as insufferable as my life was, it would only be made worse by some falsely-cheery little twit smiling through her teeth and trying to convince me to live.

Live.

If that's what you could call it.

Which by only the narrowest of definition, I could.

Nathan of course, found my performance mildly amusing as always.

"You are a bad man, Mr. T. Very bad."

Good ol' Nathan. A bit of a psychopath, really.

No matter what I said or did, no matter what foul thing happened, he never flinched, never faltered, never even slipped his smile.

He also never took any of my bullshit either.

Of every living person in the entire world, I hated him the least.

Oh, I still hated him, yeah.

I hated that he could walk and use his arms.

I hated that he could feed himself and take himself to the toilet.

I hated that he had seen and cared for every single inch of my debilitated body.

With not a hint of compliant or discomfort.

He was infuriatingly even and completely unflappable.

But at least he didn't attempt to cheer me to death.

When I talked, he listened.

When I was silent, he let me be.

When I wanted to die, he said no but didn't bother to lecture me about it.

At least after the first few times anyway.

So there was Nathan.

Who wanted me to live too.

But at least he didn't gently weep at me for it.

And if I could have appreciated anything, I would have appreciated that.

So while Nathan was entertained and this L-, whatever her name tried not to faint, Mum clung to her English civility long enough for me toss in another jab.

"My brain isn't paralyzed. Yet."

God in Heaven that it were. At least then I wouldn't have to be so aware of the hideous state of my existence.

Which finally drove her from the room.

Cheers, Mum. Have a lovely, walking day.

And then there was just us.

Me, Nathan, and L- whatever her name was.

Okay, to be honest, I knew her name straight off.

Lou.

Louisa Clark.

Brave enough to withstand my Christy Brown imitation.

Mad enough to dress herself like an unhinged little pixie.

I wondered how long she would last.

Maybe an hour or two, at least.

End of the day at the most.

The sooner I sent her packing, the better off I'd be.

Mum thought she was being clever.

Hiring a young, bright sparky thing rather than the dour, scrubbed-up 'professionals'' she usually did.

She must be getting desperate. Of course she was.

Only six months left.

Until I could die.

Six long, insufferable months.

---

It was humiliating, it always was.

Sitting there in that chair.

Knowing he was showing her "The Folder of the Great William Traynor: A Guide to Keeping a Cripie Alive and Well for As Long As Humanly Possible".

Showing her my meds. Explaining all the little pills that kept my deplorable body marginally functional day after miserable day.

Walking her around the flat.

And of course, informing her on the importance of keeping up the cheer.

Keeping up the chatter.

And making sure I was forced to live.

Breathe.

Exist.

Bloody hell.

---

Awful swell of you to clean. The place was quite a sight after last night's party.

It was absolutely daft. Completely ridiculous.

After all, the place was already part mausoleum, part waiting room of death.

All those horrible pictures in my bedroom.

Set there by Mum.

To inspire me.

Inspire.

All they did was haunt.

All the things I used to be able to do, all the places I had once gone.

All the friends I'd enjoyed the company of.

They were all gone.

I had driven them away, my friends.

My girlfriend.

Because I couldn't force myself to suffer them looking at me looking at them.

Knowing they were pitying me.

Crying for me.

Repulsed by me.

Plus, they could stand.

Walk.

Hold a drink.

Scratch their noses.

And I couldn't do any of that.

I couldn't even die.

So I drove them out, made them move on.

And Mum put up those damn pictures.

So I wouldn't forget.

As if I could.

It was all I thought about.

Everything I'd lost.

That. And death.

And not even smiley little timid Lou running the hoover or dusting the frames or wiping down the kitchen tops could fix it.

Offering to drive me around in my cripie-mobile or graciously allow me to surf the Web.

And most definitely not her bloody hot beverages.

When she finally left for the evening, I breathed a sigh of relief.

And a silent farewell to the insufferably cheery walking little pixie.

Chapter 2: The Glory and Grandeur of My Quadriplegic Life

The days themselves were endlessly intolerable.

Sitting.

Waiting.

Looking.

Breathing.

Trying not to listen to her listening to me listening to her.

Feeling the pain steadily spreading throughout my useless body.

The agony of the muscles I could not use beginning to clench and spasm from being stuck in one place for too long.

The indignity of having Nathan come in, tending to the toiletry functions I could not longer do for myself.

Discussing bed sores and autonomic dysreflexia and the possibility of blood clots.

Which never had the decency to go right on and kill me.

Suffering through the physical therapy that kept my pointless muscles from completely atrophying.

The humility of being fed.

Bite by tasteless bite.

The food was cooked quite well, seasoned to perfection.

I knew that intellectually because I knew that my mother knew my taste buds hadn't been paralyzed.

So she always made sure the cook took special pains with anything that I was to imbibe.

But of course, I couldn't taste it.

I couldn't enjoy it.

I couldn't appreciate it.

Because I was being spoon-fed like some pathetic invalid.

Which I was one.

And no, the pretty, chatty, bubbly pixie and her big, round eyes and caterpillar-wiggly eyebrows didn't help at all.

If anything, they made it worse.

I couldn't even bear look at her while she did it.

Knowing she pitied me in my helpless state.

But at least she took my request to heart and stopped being so insufferably chatty.

Most of the time.

If she ever completely ceased talking as much as I truly liked for her to, I'm sure she would have swelled right up like Violet Beauregarde but with all those unspoken words instead of blueberry juice.

And eventually exploded all over my flat.

The endless DVDs of people most decidedly not sentenced to live out their lives inexorably trapped in bodies they no longer wanted or were able to control.

Mum popping around just long enough to inquire over my head as to the continued state of my inescapable existence.

Subtly attempting to trick me into valuing life more by suggesting I roll on out into the living world I no longer desired or make contact with the friends I no longer had.

I considered from time to time referring to her as "The Real Goldfinger" considering how much time she spent nervously running her fingers along that gold chain she always wore.

Because since that simple act was one more act I was incapable of performing, I hated her for that too.

I only got rid of that insufferably chatty little pixie of a girl to gain back a dour father and the daily BBC news, both of which were slightly less intolerable than the entire rest of the day.

Since my father was nearly as taciturn as me and the world . . .

Ridiculous state of affairs, isn't then?

. . . always seemed to be in a constant state of turmoil, I hated both the least in my interminably long days.

Though as I watched the world spin, I still managed to zero in on every mobile-y gifted wanker to a man.

The whole walking lot of them.

---

The nights were worse.

Laying in my especially made hospital bed, soft and comfy as it was.

That I couldn't feel anyway.

Watching the shadows dance on the walls.

They didn't require functional legs to mock me.

Reaching out across the room to meld into the nighttime darkness, caressing it so seductively.

They didn't need functional arms to do that either.

Listening to the quiet.

Listening to the still.

Hoping, praying that death would find me quick. And have the decency to not be this boring.

It was only in sleep that I found any modicum of release. Contentment. Happiness.

When I was lucky.

Vacations I'd been on. Adventures with friends.

Water skiing, scuba diving, horseback riding.

Mountain biking, skydiving, surfing.

Everything in those dry, stale pictures mocking me from the tabletop.

More even.

Shagging my girlfriend until she screamed in ecstasy and the neighbors banged on the walls.

Cheese rolling in Gloucestershire after losing a bet.

Dunking myself spectacularly into the drink at the Bognar Birdman.

Things I hadn't done yet.

Get married, have children.

Climb Mt. Everest. Punch a nun.

Things I could never do.

Cold climbing on the moon.

Snorkeling at the bottom of the Mariana Trench.

I dreamed of everything.

I dreamed, as some of my American friends' grandmothers would say, in Technicolor.

And Hi-definition.

They were glorious dreams, so real and so vivid.

Most of them.

Then sometimes in the middle of water polo on Mars, my legs would stumble, my arms grow weak.

And I would find myself sinking, slowly, unstoppably, to the pebbly red surface beneath my feet.

Unable to rise, unable to move.

Watching my dreams, my friends, my abilities, my sanity slide away from me.

And I would be left there, unable even to wipe alien dust from my scraggly hair.

And scream at the stars.

Sometimes I would start out trapped in my chair. Struggling, fighting to rise from it, break free.

And finally, finally, doing so.

Only to awake alone.

And still very much a useless cripple.

Difficult to decide which was worse in the dream world.

Full-fledged Master of the Universe to helpless quadriplegic.

Or sobbing, screaming, pathetic mess to strong, capable, and fully-limbed.

Only to awake once more in a body no longer my own, to a life never my choice.

I would lie there, quiet and still, drifting up out of my unconscious state.

Aware that I was losing something. Detaching, drifting away from hope and possibility.

Approaching the shore of coarse, raw, shredding reality.

A world filled with pain. Despondency.

And unappreciative, un-quadriplegic-enlightened walking sods.

And knowing with crushing certainty that I had not in fact, finally died peacefully in the night.

But had instead lived.

Lived.

To face another unfaceable, insufferable day.

Of misery. Of pain.

Of life.

Chapter 3: I Crack

I remember wishing at that time I hated her being there even more than usual.

That Thursday.

That godawful day when my former good mate and my former girlfriend showed up on my doorstep.

To add just one more brick to the excrement pile that had become my life.

They had rung the day before to request to see me.

Spoken to my mother of course.

As I only ever refused to listen to them pity me over speaker.

She had of course said yes.

So that they might visit.

Encourage.

Enliven.

Inspire me to live, as it were.

Because that had obviously worked so well in the past.

My bloody mother.

And her bloody hope.

I only allowed Nathan to attend to my toiletries and dress me so that I would not be foul and naked upon their arrival.

And because he would have done so anyway to my bellows and curses had I not.

Much as he had done in the months following my realizations that I had done all the getting better I would ever do.

And so there I sat in my wheelchaired living area.

Wishing they would not come.

That something, anything would stymie their appearance.

Nothing extreme of course, as they had once upon a time been my friends.

A car crash perhaps.

Severed arms and legs.

Food poisoning.

Fire. Flood. Typhoon.

Serial killer.

The basics.

But against all my wishes and hopes and dreams and desires, they showed up.

Rupert

And Alicia.

God, she was beautiful.

Just as beautiful as the day I met her.

And the weekend we went parasailing.

The evening she drug me to the ballet.

The morning I left her mussed and naked in that bed to walk out and be mown down by an idiot on a motorbike.

And every day in between.

She was beautiful.

And uncomfortable.

Sad.

Awkward.

And guilty.

She was guilty.

They were both guilty.

It was written all over them as they tucked into their hot beverages . . .

Finally. You must rapt with joy, Clark. Someone to finally drink your damn coffee and tea.

. . . and tried to pretend they were enjoying my quadriplegic company.

Them and their healthy, walking selves.

That didn't look for more than a few seconds directly at my shaggy hair . . .

Wouldn't fit in at the office now, would I, old chum?

Scruffy face.

Never would've let these scratchy whiskers between those perfectly waxed thighs I know, love.

And certainly not my state of the art wheelchair.

Don't look, don't look, it's catching, paralysis is.

I thought my mother might twist her fingers right off her hand twiddling with that bloody gold crucifix of hers.

While Alicia busied herself carefully inspected the woodburner . . .

". . . more efficient than an open fire . . ."

. . . a thing she would have never given a half second attention to before.

And Rupert prattled on about his job . . .

". . . Goldstein's boutique . . ."

. . . whilst managing not to fall flat on his face after metaphorically crushing his bangers and mash with the 'daren't leave my chair' bit.

And Clark and her twisted up hair and fuzzy hodgepodge of garments flitted in and out like a nervous little butterfly.

If nervous little butterflies comported themselves as clumsily and obnoxiously as raging rhinoceros.

I suppose though I was somewhat indebted her.

The only moment of the whole sorry affair approaching levity was the expression of shock on her face she could not hide when I spoke to her and used her actual Christian name.

Not Clark.

As if she were a less helpful, less formidable version of Nathan.

Not Lou.

As if she were a sexless grunt.

But . . .

"Louisa, . . ."

As if she were simply a woman. Hired for her general usefulness and pleasant demeanor.

". . . would you mind putting some more logs on the fire? I think it needs building up a bit."

And right before her jaw unceremoniously thudded to my religiously hoovered hardwood floor, she blurted some bubbly acknowledgment of my request and stepped to.

I almost smiled.

That Clark. No poker face at all.

An open book.

Reading: "He has manners and gentility in that chair? He isn't a slobbering, drooling quadriplegic Yeti of an Englishman in that chair?"

Of course I have gentlemanly qualities when I choose to, Clark. Now careful with the fire before that dreadful jumper of yours there sets itself ablaze. Whole place'll come down around our. . . wait, on second thought . . .

And then, though I should have anticipated it, they, my friends, bluggered me about the shaggy head and dead heart with the real reason of their visit.

Engagement.

My former good mate, Rupert and my former girlfriend Alicia, were engaged.

To be married.

And very nearly requesting my blessing.

The walking twats.

And they even had me to thank for it.

". . . such a support to me after . . ."

Brilliant. Well done, chap.

". . . care about you . . ."

Yes, yes, thanks so much for caring enough to show yourselves personally to flay me.

". . . life goes on . . ."

Yes, well, somebody's does anyway. Not mine.

". . . two years after all . . ."

Really? Hadn't noticed. Been awful busy 'round here.

But really, they were right.

Life did go on. Rupert had been a support.

Someone'd had to be.

Because it sure hadn't been me.

She had stayed by me. Every minute of every day nearly in the hospital.

Plotting my brow, fluffing my pillow.

Listening to the doctor describe the irreparable damage done to my spinal cord so terribly high on my back.

She had cried and wiped my tears as I had cried.

She had stayed and encouraged all through those first months of physio, never complaining, never faltering, never failing.

She had spoken to my friends, our friends.

She even held my mother as she had cried and most spectacularly hugged my English father time and time again.

Bed sores and pneumonia and bladder spasms and sponge baths.

She had even set up shop for a short time in the spare room in the flat.

Reading to me in the day and stroking my pallid face at night.

She had only fled after that first year when all our work and dedication and hope had yielded the barest of movements of my right hand.

And the doctors had said that was all that it would be for me and it was time to accept it.

And my positive, genial behavior, hanging by the thinnest of frayed threads, had finally unraveled.

And I had become the thing in the chair that I was now.

Filled with hate and spite and resentment and helpless rage at every living, breathing, walking sod on the planet that wasn't me.

She had finally fled after months of my caustic bitterness in response to her kindness, her caring.

Fled after months of my raging fits, horrible threats, and hateful, spiteful tongue lashings.

In tears and emotional devastation, she had finally fled.

Long after the rest.

And shortly before my suicide attempt.

So, yes, Alicia, dear Alicia, had been there.

Until she could be there no longer.

And I still hated her for it.

For her long-suffering love.

Her tall, svelte frame.

Her Nordic beauty.

And of course, her well-functioning, painless, walking legs.

And coffee cup holding hands and fingers.

And as for Rupert, well . . .

Hope she fakes 'em all for ya, mate.

. . . I congratulated them as best I could.

"I'm sure you'll both be very happy."

And it tasted like ash, like hate, like death in my mouth.

I know Clark, with the hearing of a hypertensive underground mongoose, must have heard some or all of the conversation between me and my formerly beloved and her currently beloved.

As I have said before, face. Book.

But I didn't wait around to hear her bubbly encouragement or blithe commentary on the matter when they took their leave.

I went to my bedroom to escape her.

Them.

Everything.

The errant nail was gone.

The one that had stuck out so many months ago.

The one that I had used to scratch and tear at my wrist until I nearly bled out and died.

Driving my chair back and forth, inches at a time.

For hours and hours it seemed.

Until my blood dripped down the smooth steel of the chair and my eyes drooped.

And my mother screamed.

That nail was gone.

But there was a jousting stick.

So light and thin I could just barely maneuver it across my lap.

Straining those few muscles I still had control of.

And I drove it across the tabletop with my wheelchair, toppling those bloody insufferable pictures of me in another life.

A happy life. A fulfilled life. An alive life.

The life I wanted back. The friends I wanted back. The healthy, fantastic, walking life I wanted back.

The one that had been stolen from me by a motorbike in the rain.

So very like my own that I had chosen not to ride that day.

For safety reasons, you see.

It was all too much to take, all too much to accept.

All too much to feel.

So I destroyed them as best as I could.

Sending them crashing, shattering to the floor.

And raising the alarm of my ever so diligent, tiny, chatty, little pixie Clark.

Who ran in with fear in her big, round eyes and tremors in her shrill voice.

I stared at her, my quadriplegic chest heaving with exertion and emotion.

Daring her to say one bloody stupid word to me.

Which of course she did.

Rattling on in her fake, cheery voice about wheelchair tires and vacuum cleaners.

Because it was what she could fix. What she could do.

Those big, round, worried eyes.

I knew at that moment if I could have crawled inside them and simply died, I would have.

But I couldn't.

And that was it.

Chapter 4: Clark Cracks

I suppose it was my fault really.

I didn't give her anything better to do.

So she just did the thing that came naturally to her.

Whatever annoyed me most.

On that particular occasion, the day after my spectacular photograph smashing session, she did all the regular house cleaning . . .

Getting sloppy, Clark. I think you missed an iota of dust under the refrigerator there.

. . . and lunch feeding . . .

Always so agitated and nervous? Really, it's just a bit of shepard's pie, Clark, not a pinch.

. . . with the general non-chatty chattiness I'd come to expect from her.

She was the loudest non-talker I'd ever dealt with. I could practically hear her silent vocal cords shouting words from the next room.

After Nathan's midday visit and Clark's subsequent flight from the house, she returned.

And began doing the most upsetting, insulting thing to date.

She began fixing my picture frames.

I found her, humming quietly to herself and gently clacking those ridiculous fairy pink heels on the spotless hardwood floor.

And using wood glue to mend the frames.

Bloody hell, Clark. Can't a bloke intentionally smash all his treasured memories to bits without you waving your magic Harry Potter wand over them the second he turns his back?

Her toothy smile, full of locked vivacity and false cheer, grated on my very last paralyzed nerve as she chirped on about fixing the frames and us popping off into town. Presumably so people could stare and whisper about my pitifully miserable condition.

I tore into her with all the cold venom bottled up inside me.

Wanting to stop her.

Wanting to hurt her.

Because those pictures hurt me.

But more than that.

Wanting someone to finally listen to me.

Think about me.

Consider me.

Not just consider my physical and oh so precious mental condition.

But what I truly, honestly, wanted.

Not death, no. Not yet.

That was a distant dream.

One that wouldn't become a reality for several more months. As per the desperate agreement I had struck with my parents.

So no, not my beloved Death.

Not just quite the living death I was being subjected to.

I would live, survive. Endure on without a fight to Nathan or the doctors.

Because I had agreed to it.

But though I had ceased actively trying to kill myself, that didn't mean I had to be subjected to outright torture, did it?

The torture of those bloody pictures of another life that stood upon the table and mocked me, laughed at me.

My mother had set them up.

I had knocked them down.

And now here was Clark, jumping in on the game as well.

Thinking she was helping.

By being clever.

Generous even.

". . . not going to fix the one of Alicia . . ."

Well, thank bloody heaven for that, Clark.

". . . not that stupid . . ."

Oi, let's not get ahead of ourselves now.

". . . thought you might feel . . ."

No. No. Just stop there. There is no possible way you could know how I feel, you blithering idiot.

And I tore into her again.

"Spare me the psychological therapy."

I knew what she was up to.

Trying to keep my spirits up.

Revive my hope.

With all those remembrances of everything I could never get back.

As if I could feel more pathetic and useless every time they caught my eye.

I finished my rant and started to turn away.

Turn my back on them.

And her.

And just wait for the whole sorry mess to be over and done.

And then she stopped me.

With her own skewer.

Impaling me right through my ailing pancreas, she did.

Which, I must admit, I never saw coming.

Not in a million years.

"You don't have to behave like an arse."

Pardon . . . what?

I turned the chair back to her, completely certain I had lost my mind and was hallucinating her response.

And there was Little Miss Sunshine.

Angry.

Heated.

Practically apoplectic.

All of her false cheer and peppy enthusiasm evaporated.

I had never seen her speak out against anybody or anything.

I had never heard her voice tinged with frustration or irritation.

She, like everyone else in my colorless, dreary life, only ever displayed positivity. Forced gaiety.

They bowed to me, they tiptoed around me.

No one must ever upset the invalid, you see. No one must ever let on anything less than perfection and sublime evenness.

I could kick them in the teeth, metaphorically of course, and they would smile and thank me for it.

My mother talked around every single even slightly negative issue with either false equanimity or mild constructivism.

My father simply didn't talk at all anymore.

Only Nathan ever dared to speak plainly.

"You're a right tosser, Mr. T.," he'd comment drily when I was being difficult. "Now open that mouth and lemme at those pearlies, eh?"

But everyone else either drowned me with fabricated joyfulness.

Or politely fled under my ire-filled wake.

Because that was what one did with fragile people. Sick people. Dying people.

Like me.

I had waited for Clark to flee as well.

Just like everyone else.

And here she'd finally cracked.

Sort of.

But instead of tears and gentle sobbing, she was exuding fire. Mettle.

Exuding real life.

At me.

Right at me.

Not to make me feel better.

But to shut me up.

She wasn't putting me first.

Because I was a cripple. Because I was an invalid. Because I was someone to be coddled and pitied.

She was coming at me, as the Westerns say, guns blazing.

"I'm just here day after day trying to do the best job I can!"

Marks for you then. Feel free to sod off anytime you wish.

I narrowed my eyes at her.

"And what if I told you I didn't want you here?"

Instead of crumpling, I could swear that little eye-watering pixie drew herself up.

"I'm employed by your mother. And unless she tells me she doesn't want me here anymore, I'm staying."

Bloody good for you then, Clark. Mummy dearest'll never utter those words. Unless of course we train for knife juggling together.

And then she dropped the other shoe.

She wasn't staying because she cared about me.

Ta all the same then, love.

But because she needed the money.

And I was completely gobsmacked.

I didn't expect she cared for me, not after that way I treated her.

Any and all caregivers arrived on our doorstep only because my mother paid them to.

And wouldn't have otherwise.

So that was no surprise.

But she, Clark, in the middle of all her fit, admitted it.

To my scruffy, quadriplegic, cripie face.

And that did surprise me.

Shocked me in fact.

So much so all the fight went out of me.

"Fair enough," I muttered before turning to roll away. "Just put the photographs in the bottom drawer, will you? All of them."

And I left.

Chapter 5: Igniting The Fire . . . With French Gay Porn

Truthfully, Clark threw me for such a loop that I didn't talk to her for the rest of the day.

I had to decide if I was angry. Disgusted.

Or impressed.

Impressed that there was finally someone who (aside from Nathan) that would speak back to me.

Someone who wouldn't tiptoe around my frail, pitiful, quadriplegic self.

Someone with whom I could joust. Verbally of course.

Someone's company, in short, that I could enjoy.

At least marginally.

So I tried.

"Why in the hell are you trying to sneak carrots onto my fork?"

I hate carrots.

She glanced at me nervously.

Oh come on, Clark, give me some of that fire there.

"Um . . . I suppose I thought vegetables would be good for you?"

Come on.

"Let me get this straight. You think a teaspoon of carrot would improve my quality of life?"

Where is it?

"I take your point."

But her fire, that fire that had seared me and woken me up to her potential a little seemed to have fizzled out once more.

"I won't do it again."

And I was left with dirt dry civility.

"Let me take the carrots and-"

Arse-kissing compliance.

"I don't want anything else. Just do me a cup of tea."

And cold boredom.

That I couldn't stomach from her again. Not when she'd warmed me up a little and singed me with that fire I'd been missing for so long.

But because I had been stubborn (my mother diplomatically called it 'tenacious') for as long as I could remember . . .

"And don't try and sneak a bloody zucchini into it!"

. . . I found myself not ready to give up quite yet.

I even relayed her poisonous carrot attempts to Nathan when he arrived after lunch. Hoping between the two of us we could tease her out of her iceberg.

And because the Mister Fork and Mr. Train bit were too mad and hilarious to keep to myself.

As well as the pesto she had so innocently referred to as 'green gravy'.

Truth be told, without even really trying, Louisa Clark was beginning to get to me.

Her freshness, her naivety, were too unreal to be possible in my mind.

Here was a young woman in her latter twenties who had rarely been out of this teeny town no one would ever even have considered visiting if not for the ancient crumbling castle in the middle.

And even then probably never further than fifty miles.

Her brightness, her enthusiastic nature, even her bizarre clothes all bespoke someone who would relish and revel in the sights, the sounds, the experiences of the world beyond our town's suffocating borders.

And yet, she stayed.

Had stayed.

Intended to stay.

Huddled like a cheery, eye-blisteringly colored mouse.

Content to hide away, nibbling on the sparse crumbs afforded her by this bland little hamlet.

The entire affair made me, the crip stuck in the chair, incensed.

And I could hold my tongue no more when she let on she'd never bothered to see a film 'with subtitles'.

"What's this? Something with men?"

Of course I snarked.

"French gay porn."

The look on her face was priceless.

Oh good Lord, Clark. Really?

And then she tried to get all snooty with me.

Over my supposed superiority.

But something else (aside from her Heidi braids) drew my attention about her that she never caught on to.

Her statement.

Her lie.

That she didn't even know was one.

"I've never hated anyone."

Bollocks, Clark. Even Mother Teresa despised someone at some point in her life, I wager.

But I set that aside and made her watch the film.

I didn't.

Not really. Having seen it before, I glanced at it from time to time.

Soaking in my favorite parts.

But mostly, out of the corner of my eye, watching her.

Sitting propped on my grey couch in her pajama striped pants and her rainbow-colored jumper, those big, round eyes affixed on the screen so intently.

I think she even forgot her precious cup of tea.

The day outside looked deceptively warm and bright from the large plate glass window behind her.

But it all dimmed as I watched her drink in the film.

I was glad I had chosen it for her first "foreign outing".

Though I tried not to sound too eager when I inquired as to her opinion during the end credits.

She burst out of her silent reverie with all that fire I'd been hoping to ignite again.

"They could have left!"

And I challenged her.

"They chose to stay."

But she wasn't having any of it.

"Yeah, no, I get it, being that it gave their livings more meaning . . ."

Ah, yes, very good, Clark. Top marks.

"But that's-"

I restrained a smile as I interrupted her indignant sputtering.

"You don't agree."

"Well . . . to sacrifice themselves like that!"

Like you?

"I mean . . . could you even imagine?!"

Could you, Louisa?

But barring that, I just had to make her say it.

"But you liked the film?"

And there was that smile again, so big and bright like she was bringing the whole world into my flat with her.

"I loved it!"

Excellent.

And I felt my own smile, so rare these days, spreading across my usually grim face.

She of course took my general stance to heart now. Laughing even as she did so.

"If you're laughing at me, I swear to God, I'm going to push you out of that chair!"

And again, that fire! Hurrah!

And now that I had gotten what I wanted, I relented.

"No, I'm not laughing at you."

Just a little.

And suddenly the quiet, still, antiseptically clean flat was just not the right place.

For her to be.

"The sky is clearing. Shall we get some air?"

And I swear that big, toothy smile of hers grew even bigger still.

Chapter 6: The More I Think About Clark

I started thinking about her more and more.

Most often as I lay in bed at night, waiting out the ceaseless pain and maddening insomnia.

Clark lived the entirety of her life within the confines of our paltry English town.

Save apparently for some trip or other to Spain with her boyfriend.

Truth now, Clark. Did he make you run there?

A no doubt thrilling holiday.

But Clark. Her.

Here.

Always.

People do that sometimes.

Stay in one place forever.

Never seeing or hearing or doing anything out of the ordinary.

Not my suggestion but they do.

Always here.

In their heads, however, they are free.

They soar.

Clark, it seemed to me, was stuck in one spot both inwardly and outwardly.

She watched television. And cinema without subtitles. Went to the pub.

Watched her boyfriend run, for God's sake.

Around in a little circle like a hamster on a wheel.

And truth be told, though she defended herself to me, she truthfully didn't seem to enjoy any of it all that much.

At least the Running Man anyway.

But she seemed to have convinced herself that was all there was for her.

And to her.

That she was worthy of nothing else but the drone. Slight grey tedium and encroaching boredom.

Relieved only by her cheery outlook.

Outlandish clothing.

And me of course. The crip in the chair.

And the most fantastical thing of all was that she didn't appear resentful. Bitter.

"I've never hated anyone."

Liar.

But that Clark, despite it all, she simply exuded joy and warmth everywhere she went.

It bounced right off my mother unfortunately, due to her dejection and anxiety over her invalid son's horrific condition and the countdown of our aforementioned agreement.

And of course, her cool, gentile English upbringing.

She was, I dare say, the only one.

Nathan was pleasantly affected by it.

She was even beginning to get to me, Clark was.

That sprightly pixie with her ridiculous getups and schoolgirl hair.

" . . . twenty-six!"

Bright-eyed enthusiasm and toothy grins.

"E.T. is everyone's favorite film!"

Her little bursts of fire.

"I'm just amazed that you've reached the ripe old age of thirty-one without being locked in a cupboard for being such a snob!"

Oh, steady on then. Ha!

And complete lack of any guile whatsoever.

"What do you want? From your life?"

"Oh, um, I don't know. I've never really thought about it."

Bloody hell.

---

She was quite fun to provoke when she was in a state, make no mistake.

Such as now for instance.

"I'm not in a state."

Oh, but she was.

Such a state.

Over my physician appointment.

The prospect of driving me there.

And my bangers and mash.

Well sort of.

She had been feeding me soup.

Which presently was puddling in my quadriplegic lap.

"So, am I going as an incontinent?"

She seemed intent on resolutely daubing the tepid liquid directly into the fabric of my dark trousers.

"I'm not finished."

Which she did not know that I could, to a certain extent, feel.

"Clark."

Not that I was going to tell her.

"Clark."

No.

"Clark."

Those quirky eyebrows and big round orbs underneath them would be positively mortified to discover that little tidbit of information.

"Clark."

And for all my bluff, I wasn't senselessly cruel.

"Clark."

At least not for that particular topic.

"Clark."

And I did so want to see her smile again.

"Clark."

Especially now that she had advanced to glaring at my crotch, focused on scorching the area to death with the hair dryer from the bath.

"Lighten up, Clark. I'm the one having scalding hot air directed at my genitals."

No response.

Oh come on. Give us some fun now.

So I tried once more.

Think. Think.

Only something really inappropriate would suffice.

Last call, Clark. Here we go. Let's have that smile then.

"Come on, what's the worst that could happen – I end up in a wheelchair?"

And there it was.

That smile. Stunned, shocked. Embarrassed. Ashamed, even. At the gall to respond so gay and heartless at such an awful statement as that.

And then, bonus accolades.

She laughed.

This full, joyous sound.

Accompanied by those big white teeth.

And sparkling eyes.

And I, for all my own apprehensions about the forthcoming afternoon, felt a smile tugging at the corner of my own mouth.

Success.

---

As much as I was beginning to view Clark in something of a more entertaining light than before, there was nothing neither she nor Nathan could do to relieve my trepidation regarding my half year medical appointment.

Whereas I normally would have enjoyed a good go around with her over the cleanliness of the flat or her complete refusal to leave any and all veg off my lunch plate, I sank down into myself at the thought of leaving my familiar eremite surroundings for a much more public viewing of my condition.

Whereas I normally would have enjoyed ribbing her abject terror whilst timidly maneuvering my crip-mobile down streets and byways, I sulked at the thought of discussing my continued state of complete helplessness with my very-well paid and very much still mobile physicians.

Every time it was the same.

Condition stable.

Advancement unviable.

Hope shattered.

I was never going to get better.

This was it.

A working neck and head on a useless potato sack of a body.

The most minimalistic of right hand finger and thumb control.

But no strength.

No stamina.

No nothing.

Only a regulation of my meds to keep disease and death at bay.

And the pain.

Those nerve endings that still wanted to fire, send messages.

But somewhere around my C-5 and 6, the messages got all haywired.

Telling me everything was still there.

And how bad it hurt.

Even sometimes that I could move those limbs that had betrayed me so long ago.

Lies, only lies.

No movement.

Only pain. False sensation. Infections.

And lies.

I didn't want them to see it and do nothing.

It made them pity me.

Me and my invalid body.

That, according to my agreement with my bloody, fretting, walking parents, I could not abdicate for another four months.

And oh how I hated it.

And them.

And her.

---

She had seen them.

The scars.

On my wrists.

Those scars from my suicide attempt with the nail.

She had seen them and now that she had, she would always see them.

Them instead of me.

And think those thoughts that everyone else did.

Oh that man. Oh that poor, poor man.

And . . .

How could he do that to himself? To his parents?

Or worse . . .

How dare he do that to himself? To his parents?

I knew because I had heard it all before.

From everyone.

My mother. My father. My sister.

The doctors, with their cutting eyes.

Some of the nosier nurses and caregivers with their flapping mouths.

Nathan. Because he 'cared'.

And now I would hear it again. From her.

Clark.

Stupid, bloody, guileless, walking Clark.

With those big, round eyes.

And bleeding heart.

Even if she never said anything, I would know she was thinking it.

Always.

At least for the next four months anyway.

Bloody hell.

Chapter 7: Molahonkey Snow

This is it, I thought to myself. Finally. Perhaps if I lay very still and engage as little as possible, they'll won't realize until it's too late.

Cruel to them, yes, a bit.

My father. Clark.

But my desperation knew no bounds.

I hadn't purposefully caught chill.

It had simply happened.

And since my father removed himself from any and all needy situations as coolly as possible to run off into the arms of his current mistress, he had no clue as to how quickly dire my circumstances could become.

He could, of course, consult the folder Nathan and my mother had painstakingly put together.

But that was a longshot.

Clark was another matter.

She had been hired by my grimly determined mother to keep me alive and 'well' for six months.

Plus, she cared.

And could and would consult the folder.

I could only hope I would be too far gone by the time she figured it out and rung Nathan.

It might've worked too. If not for one tiny slip-up on my part.

"Thank you."

Alerted her right away. Those two little syllables.

I never said thank you.

I teased. I directed. I challenged. I sulked.

I never appreciated.

Not anymore.

Not outwardly.

And so when I did, her shock and rising alarm hung as thick as marmalade on toast in the room.

But I stayed quiet.

And sick.

And dying.

Waiting it out.

Clark was quite helpful in fact.

She and her freezing cold hands adjusted my pillows.

Yes, yes, I shall go on to my beloved death encased in an iceblock. Carry on then.

And fed me painkillers.

Atta girl. Load me up.

I took them silently, hoping by the time help arrived, I would have quietly slipped away.

Into peace.

Into death.

Into freedom.

My only regret was that my mother would inevitably blame Clark.

Who was completely innocent in all this, my feverishly devious plan.

And would no doubt carry the guilt of her failure with her 'til the end of her mundane, eye-blisteringly colored little days.

Apologies, Clark. But I haven't the time. Well, that's not entirely true. I've all the time in the next four months actually. And that's the problem, you see.

And then I slipped away into unconsciousness.

Hoping never to awaken.

---

Bloody, walking, wanker of a competent medical home attendant Nathan.

Bloke showed up just in the nick of time.

To cool me off. Break my fever. Syringe me full of the right drugs.

At least that was what I assumed.

For I did wake again.

Exhausted. In pain.

But better. Healthier.

More alive.

Bollocks.

She was there of course in the gloom.

Clark.

Hunched over my Apple.

Piece in one ear.

Open face awash with light.

Smiling in amusement at something on the screen.

That smile was too telling, for sure.

Had she found my action packed, James Bond style birthday video?

Or, with luck, she was instead viewing . . .

". . . French gay porn, I hope?"

As worried as I'm sure she had been, Clark had come far enough now that she still managed to hold her own against me.

Slight dismissive gesture as she lowered the screen.

"WiFi connection's not strong enough."

Well, perhaps that statement was enough to live for. Maybe. For a little while anyway. Not that I have a choice.

It was dark. Her shift was over.

But she had stayed.

Only because there was no other, I was sure.

My father was not really one for sticking around much these days.

And I had driven my mother off enough times she probably was staying away for self-preservation purposes.

Or London couldn't get a wheel on the road more likely.

So, as winter luck would have it, there was me.

The infirm.

And Clark.

The caregiver.

With her white-heart speckled maroon dress. Thick belt.

Tighted legs and . . .

Are those my socks, Clark?

. . . tiny padded feet.

Just me and she.

Alone in the snow.

And she wanted to talk.

"Can I ask you something?"

About me.

"I suspect you're going to."

My old life.

"What happened?"

My scars. My accident.

Chatty, chatty Clark.

Making me speak of things I wished I could forget.

Tried to forget.

Couldn't forget.

Before realizing her mistake.

And covering for it by trying to run away.

I usually would have let her.

Stared out the window alone at the dark.

And the snow.

And my own unending, insufferable existence.

But it had been a long day.

Waiting out the fever and my rollercoaster bloodpressure in hopes of welcoming death.

And regretfully acquiescing to my continued existence upon awakening once more.

It took a toll on one, even a heartless, suicidal quadriplegic such as myself.

And since she had been so thoughtless as to attempt to save my life from me again, I decided I couldn't let her off that easy.

Plus . . . I was weak.

Lonely.

Vulnerable.

Melancholy.

And I needed her.

There I said it, admitted it.

I needed her.

I needed that brightness, that warmth.

That zest and enthusiasm.

I needed, I wanted, her.

Her presence.

Her smile.

Her glow.

It was her fault.

She always gave it, offered it. Provided it. Freely.

That brightness.

And right then, I couldn't let it go away.

I wanted her to . . .

"Stay. Tell me . . . tell me something good."

And, God bless Clark, her face immediately lit up, bright and cheery and gay.

And open.

Completely warm and open.

"I used to say that to my dad!"

Oh, Louisa. You beautiful thing.

It was the first time I thought it.

Easily. Effortlessly. Almost without even realizing it.

She wasn't going to abide dutifully there with a fake, painted-on smile and mournful eyes and worried, pinched lines deepening all over her quickly aging face.

No, not her.

She was going to bathe me, shower me, drown me, in her unremitting joy.

You beautiful, beautiful thing.

But that song.

That ghastly, god-awful song.

That Mola-something-or-other song.

It was terrible.

Her singing was terrible.

Quavering and reedy.

And really quite endearing.

And she knew it, I could tell. From her hunched posture to her self-conscious grin as she sang, she knew it.

And giggled.

Which broke my dark brooding and made me laugh.

And in that moment, that one shining moment of complete and utter levity, I loved her absolutely.

Every single thing about her.

Her hair. Her clothes.

Her caterpillar-wiggly eyebrows.

That bright shining light, glowing right out of her all the time.

And her crazy, Wonderland singing walrus of a father I knew nothing about.

Because he, through her, had brought that song to me.

That god-awful song.

And this lovely, beautiful girl.

I didn't say any of that though.

"You are insane," I pronounced through my incredulous grin. "Your whole family is insane."

I couldn't. Not me.

"And you are a god-awful singer. I hope your dad was better."

She, of course, had learned to hold her own with me.

Finally.

With her big, bright smile for once brimming with self-assurance and confidence.

"I think what you mean to say is 'thank you, Miss Clark, for attempting to entertain me'.

If she had been mine and I would have been simply a sick guy in a bed, I would have lifted up right then and there.

Laughed deep and full in my chest the way I used to be able to.

Leaned forward.

And kissed those full, rosy lips.

Murmuring some off-handed apology or other about how she was right and how I was positive the song was perfect when not sung by someone sucking helium.

And then through her appalled protests at my rude words, I would have kissed her again.

Pressing my lips adoringly to hers. Tasting her. Breathing her in.

One strong but gentle hand cupping the side of her soft face in that perfect spot where my fingers could twine and caress her lower earlobe where it lightly curved before joining the delicate skin of her neck.

Palm warm against her blushing cheek.

Thumb brushing slowly along the slight rise of her cheekbone.

But I wasn't that guy anymore.

I couldn't kiss her.

I couldn't caress her face.

I couldn't even brush my own stringy hair out of my eyes to see her better.

Quickly, before I fell away from her again, I pushed my own darkness away (something unheard of for me nowadays) and focused on her light.

"Tell me something else."

Not specific enough. No, not for Clark.

"Something that doesn't involve singing."

How she thought of her glitter wellies and stripy bumblebee legs, I'll never know.

But she did.

And waxed nostalgically on about them.

Face lit up like a child at Christmas.

I could almost see her.

Much younger.

Even tinier.

Same hair.

Same crazy outfits.

Now complete with yellow and black tights and glitter-painted rainboots.

It wasn't too hard to imagine.

She talked on about other things, past the deluge of darkness that almost swallowed me up again when she asked if there was anything I had ever loved quite so much.

And I thought of my former life and everything so amazing in it.

And everything I'd lost in the moment that motorbike severed my spinal cord.

And the darkness swelled.

But I pushed it away with aid of the comforting knowledge that I was going to be rid of this new, miserable life in just four more long months.

And focused in on her.

Bright, chirpy Louisa Clark.

Recovering so brilliantly from her falter I had to admire her spirited determination.

For once I lay still of my own accord, content just to listen to her as she filled the dark, brooding spaces of my mind with her ceaseless, rambling chatter.

It was quite nice, to be honest.

I drifted on her lilting voice, rising and falling like gently lapping ocean waves against the sand.

She didn't seem to mind when my heavy eyelids fluttered shut now and again.

Or when my tongue grew too thick to respond to her with snips and little jabs.

She just kept talking, soothing down all the jagged edges of me with the warm flow of her voice.

Just being her.

At some point, I slept, deep and dreamless.

Probably due to some of Nathan's endless supply of life-inducing medicines.

But I think also due to Clark's inadvertent hypnotherapy.

I woke at some point during the night to find her curled up in a blanket on lower half of my bed.

I was dimly grateful my uncontrollable leg spasms hadn't blackened her eye or walloped her spleen.

She had fallen asleep reading, presumably one of my books, and her thick dark hair fanned out over my useless feet.

She lay on her side facing me. Breathing deep and slow.

She was beautiful in the low light.

I suspected she always had been.

Only too different from my usual list of preferences that I hadn't cared to notice it.

Along with my insistent and abiding hatred of all living creatures blessed with functional working bodies.

But now I could see.

And I saw her.

And she was beautiful.

I felt a deep desire to reach out one of my limp hands and stroke her hair.

Wake her gently, send her off to a more comfortable rest in the spare room.

But I couldn't.

My arms were still paralyzed.

But my voice wasn't. Not yet.

I could have simply called her name. As on guard as she was, she'd probably be up and talking before she fully regained consciousness.

But honestly, I wasn't ready to be alone yet.

I wanted her there.

Not at my feet like some servant.

But there.

Just there.

With me.

So I watched her sleep for a while.

Until her peaceful presence lulled me back down again as well.

And I found myself adrift on a rare, undulating sea of weightless, painless slumber.

Her singing echoing in my head.

It really wasn't so bad.

Chapter 8: Inevitably One

Contrary to what romantic tales would have you believe, after my night of falling in love with Louisa "Molahonkey" Clark, my life did not magically get better.

I did not miraculously regain the use of my formally paralyzed appendages.

I did not suddenly rediscover a zest for life or a reawakening of my desire to live.

On the contrary, I looked to my death all the more fervently.

Because I cared for her now and she attended my every need and whim on demand, I did not wish to live on in such a state.

I knew, in the quiet hours of my frozen life, what was to come.

Years would pass.

My condition would deteriorate. It was inevitable.

The pain would get worse. My secondary ailments (uncontrollable blood pressure, bedsores, excruciating phantom pain, etc.) would all continue on, wearing me down day by day.

Tearing at my mental and emotional defenses. Making me all the more unpredictable in my daily moods.

Even more frightening, the threat always loomed of blood clots, strokes, a whole myriad of complications I was susceptible to suffering that could leave me deaf, dumb, and blind.

As much as I despised being a quadriplegic, going from such a strapping young man with the world on a string to having a grand total of a single finger and thumb under my feeble control, the future loomed even darker.

A prisoner trapped in my own body. Unable to communicate with the outside world. Unable to see, hear, speak.

In essence, a slightly sentient vegetable.

In my worst nightmares, I lived out my days thusly.

Worried, pinched faces hovering above me, trying to put on brave voices, brave faces.

And I, mute and silent, unable to tell them I was still in there at all.

Eventually the disembodied gave up trying to talk to me at all. Simply moved me as they wished.

Keeping me alive. Out of love and hope at first. Then duty and social obligations.

Feeding tube to the stomach, damp cloth the only companion to daub out and moisten my dry mouth.

Becoming nothing more than a whisper of ghost within myself.

With nothing left but the pain. And emptiness.

Trapped in a blackness so complete and deep it was as though I had never existed at all.

Unable to live, unable to die.

It was the reason, though I would never tell, I woke in the dark some nights, especially in those early days, screaming.

Thrashing my head from side to side, clenching my jaw so tight I thought it would snap. Gnashing my tongue in terror.

Tears and snot and bloody saliva streaming down my face.

Defunct body spasming, spasming, spasming.

Heart pounding so painfully fast it was only by sheer (bad) luck that it did not explode and end my suffering then and there.

Until Nathan was forced to administer a sedative to relieve and temporarily release my panicked, terrorized mind and body.

It was the reason that I, a thirty-one-year-old grown man, slept with nightlights.

Sophisticated nightlights, of course.

Softly glowing rope lighting circumventing the base of each room. Automatically set for the glooming of every eve whether I was present or not.

It looked pretty. It looked elegant and sleek.

It looked and was, safe.

And every night as I drifted off to sleep amidst the mental frustrations and physical agonies of my present existence, I was well aware that I might wake without those, or any, lights ever again.

And so, though I loved Louisa Clark then and every day since, it did not change my grim Dignitas determination.

She would never let go of me of her own accord.

She was too loyal, too giving of herself.

She would soldier on, ailment after bloody ailment, all the while smiling and assuring.

If it took years, so be it.

She would abide with that bright, toothy smile.

And those big, round, expressive eyes.

That, no matter her stalwart nature, would dull over time.

As she watched the world from the garden windows.

Stuck, trapped, while others lived the life they wanted.

The caged bird and all that.

Whatever her feelings presently, she would eventually grow to hate me.

Mask it as 'hating the illness'.

But hating me.

And me hating myself, the thing I had become.

And more and more, dreading the certainty and uncertainty of each coming day.

As if I could anymore already.

And I, I would be forced to suffer on interminably long.

Suffering so that others may have me. Whatever was left of me.

A shadow of a ghost of my former self.

And I couldn't allow either of us to follow down that road any longer than I must.

Not after all I'd done.

Not after all she could do.

And so, with burgeoning love for Louisa Clark in my heart and mind, and determination born of dread and sheer hate and terror thrumming through the rest of me, I set out live the next four months in as affable a manner as possible.

Quietly endure the misery my shattered body had become.

Enjoy the company of the sprightly little eye-blistering pixie my mother had thrust upon me.

And encourage her, convince her, to look beyond the borders of our sleepy little hamlet and its droning denizens.

And imagine what she could experience. Enjoy. Achieve.

Become.

Because she deserved it.

Because she could.

Because she was, simply, Louisa "Molahonkey" Clark.

Notes:

Metallica's 'One' and the video.

Can't watch it. Too horrifying.

Inspiration for this chapter.

Chapter 9: After The English Rain

Oh boy, that Clark. She sure could throw a good rant.

Casually mention how I had decided Alicia and Rupert were a good match and she erupted (of course) into enthusiastically damning monologue of their not so bright future as she saw it.

Loyal and fiery, Louisa Clark. Not because of anything done to her on their account. But for what they had done to me.

In other words, she would despise them for me.

Without ever consulting me regarding the necessity of it.

She simply did.

Such was Clark.

I just sat back (as if I had a choice in the matter) in the English sunshine, weak and deceptive to warmth as it was, and watched her go.

She put on quite the show.

Very entertaining.

And exceptionally spot-on.

Unbeknownst to her, she might even have been describing my own parents, to a certain extent.

". . . ridiculous wedding . . ."

Oh, yes, we have the evidence displayed in burnished silver frames to prove it.

". . . ankle-biter or two . . ."

Yes, actually. My sister and I. I believe my mother placed the order to God herself personally.

". . . place in the country . . ."

Someplace . . . castleworthy, perhaps?

". . . shagging his secretary within five years . . ."

Well, six, I think. But honestly, he did have quite a resilient constitution, as it were.

". . . little bit cross with him all the time . . ."

Little bit?

". . . really awful dinner parties . . ."

Wouldn't know, Clark. I was upstairs with the nanny.

". . . scared of all the alimony."

Seen the house, have you?

". . . sex once every six weeks . . ."

Please, Clark. My ulcers.

". . . while doing absolutely nothing to raise them . . ."

Yes, of course, you met Dad. Good chap.

". . . perfect hair but get this kind of pinched face . . ."

Oh dear, Clark, please don't- Hello, Mum!

". . . insane Pilates habit . . ."

Not likely. She's not really much for the bending and stretching.

". . . buy a dog . . ."

Nope, already had him. One in a long line, in fact. Two for two. Want to swing for three?

". . . crush on her riding instructor . . ."

And we have a winner! Bravo, Clark!

". . . he will take up jogging . . ."

Not bloody likely.

". . . Harley-Davidson, which she will despise . . ."

When did you get into our garage, Clark?

". . . feel like somehow he got suckered."

Wow. Nailed it.

And then she ran out of words.

Or breath.

But, flush with smiles, still managed to sparkle those big, round eyes at me as I grinned at her.

The spin she'd put on it was hilarious and I'd never known anything else other than growing up in my family.

But really, somewhere inside myself I think I'd always suspected it was the real reason I'd enjoyed the company of a particular female for only a few weeks or months at a time before moving on.

I didn't want to be like my Mum and Dad.

Not until I absolutely had to.

If ever.

With all her grandstanding (whilst fidgeting on my mother's crumbling garden wall), I wondered what kind of household the modest Clark had grown up in.

Something that had made her the fiery sprite I saw before me now perhaps.

Still . . .

"I'm starting to feel just the tiniest bit sorry for Running Man."

No, not really. That was a lie.

She brushed it off.

The café, she said. The people. Their patterns. Their behavior.

And I thought I understood.

"Is that why you've never gotten married?"

People around here got married young so they never had time to consider any other options in life.

By their rights, at twenty-six, Clark was practically an old maid, moldering away whilst her boyfriend ran himself silly.

She seemed surprised at my question. As if nobody ever cared to ask her before.

"I suppose so."

Hmm.

---

Her and those brilliant, emerald green, how had she said Running Man put it, leprechaun drag queen shoes she seemed so proud of.

She did have her own style, no doubt about that.

Quite unusual among the fleece-wearing middle class. As well as the well-to-do, sleekly monochromed residents from the other side of the castle.

Louisa 'Molahonkey' Clark was all her own in that respect.

Where she ever found the inspiration and wherewithal for those curious combinations, I shall never know.

Paris, the hub of the fashion world, was definitely the place for her.

Pity she'd never been there, drinking all the sights and sounds. Smells and tastes. Even the atmosphere felt different there, physically different.

Pity she couldn't see herself going there.

It angered and frustrated and saddened me all at the same time.

That she was making herself so small, that she automatically felt she must, for others.

Her parents. Her sister.

Running Man.

She was made for so much more.

She could experience so much more.

She could be so much more.

If she would only deem herself worthwhile enough.

And therein lay the problem.

She didn't see it.

Or refused to see it.

The problem itself.

And the fact that she took no care for herself that I could see.

Not her appearance or her personal grooming. In that she was just fine.

More so if you considered her astoundingly creative fashion ensembles.

She simply took no care to make herself heard. Seen. Important. Considered.

And didn't see, or wouldn't see, why she should.

As things were going for her, she would live out her life in this sleepy little Englishtown without ever seeing the world.

She would bounce from meaningless job to meaningless job.

She would watch Running Man, well, run.

She would never experience any of the bigger things life had to offer her.

And that was the great tragedy of all.

The waste of her.

Here.

Forever.

Still, I had to consider: was it better to have lived like her, small and content? Or like me, big and far-reaching, now reduced to nearly nothing?

I didn't know and it drained me to consider it, but I wanted her to live.

Even if I wasn't there in the end to see it.

---

Still, for all my morbid musings, I found myself lightening.

Just a little.

Because of her.

Because the more I talked to Clark, listened to Clark, paid attention to Clark, the more fascinating she became.

The way she described things.

Lesbian tea for instance. Good Lord.

Her opinion of my physical appearance.

Bloody awful, she said. Vagrant, she said.

Hmphf.

Well, I had, after all, asked for it.

Her opinion.

Perceptive as it was.

And she was right.

It did itch something terrible.

And I had to get her to scratch my nose somehow.

And that was how I ended up letting her cut my hair and shave my face.

Chapter 10: The Debearding of The Will

Looking back, one of the most relaxing, simplest moments of those final six months was my first shave from Louisa Clark.

She brought me into the bath, had me tilt back over the sink.

She didn't know the warm, moist cloth over my face was to soften the skin and hair follicles there, make the shaving easier, less painful.

She'd only seen it on film and was emulating the movement from somebody else.

She really didn't know what she was doing and I honestly had no reason to trust her meager salon abilities.

She was, after all, Louisa "Molahonkey" Clark and might accidently Sweeney Todd my throat with a sudden mis-sneeze.

But I rather doubted it.

She took such care every step of the way. Sometimes moving so slow the snarkier, more hateful version of me might have akin her to a grandmother sloth.

Nathan and the doctors were the only ones to ever touch me anymore.

Smooth, efficient, clinical movements.

Professional and to the point. As they should be.

My father, never much of an outwardly affectionate Englishman to start, patted a hand about my shoulder from time to time.

My mother and her twisty crucifix necklace had been privy to hugs and forehead kisses once upon a time. Until my spite and hate had driven her away.

Now she barely touched me, for fear I would set her aflame with my dragonfire.

So my personal space was rather left alone.

As I preferred it.

And then there was Clark.

I had shaven my face many times in years past.

Zip, zop, done.

Gone to spas with girlfriends upon their leave.

And been pampered with special lotions and exotic paraphernalia. Hot towels and steambaths.

Very expensive. Very high-brow. Very nice.

But all of it paled in comparison to inexperienced, slow-moving Clark.

Liberally applying a drugstore brand shaving cream.

A warm, damp cloth as I have said before.

And slowly, tentatively, beginning the shave.

The blade of the razor might have been sharp but as slowly and easily as she proceeded, I didn't feel it.

I felt other things though.

I felt the soft gentle touch of her fingers upon my skin.

I felt the light warmth of her sweet breath.

I felt a calm and peace almost unbeknownst to me in my self-assigned quadriplegic isolation.

In fact, as I reclined there, the frustration and anxiety that had become my daily companions melted away.

And I simple reposed, being pampered and shaven.

And cared for.

I could almost pretend the wheelchair wasn't there.

I could almost pretend this were but a stop in my day.

I could almost pretend a lot of things.

I kept my eyes closed, allowing myself to float along on the sea of Louisa Clark-induced tranquility.

Listening to her move and breathe.

Feeling those gentle fingers upon my skin.

Almost tasting the air surrounding us.

And smelling her fragrance, light and fresh. Somewhere underneath the shaving cream and above the antiseptic smells usually unpleasantly invading my senses.

She took her sweet time and I let her.

And didn't really care if it ever ended.

But of course it did.

When she finished her shave of me with nary a slip or nick, I opened my eyes.

And saw her.

Round, luminescent face centimeters from my own.

Big blue eyes lit up in wonder.

Ever present smile curling those red lips in a most pleasant way.

She looked quite pleased with herself and somewhat in awe.

I knew why of course.

I was, had been, a handsome man before the accident.

I knew it. My parents knew it. My sister knew it. My friends knew it. Women knew it.

I wasn't arrogant about it.

It simply was.

My smile easy and charming. My eyes green and intelligent.

My face free of blemish or flaw.

That was why I covered myself up with all that hair after the accident and my year of useless hope, you see.

I was no longer me. And it was a cruel joke to pretend otherwise.

But now Clark was seeing me.

The me I had been before everything was broken down.

And she, like the rest, were charmed.

And somewhat disbelieving.

But I didn't think of any of that just then with her lovely face so close to mine and her breath light and sweet upon my face.

All I could think was how beautiful she was.

How purely, unaffectedly, unabashedly beautiful she really was.

More so than any other woman I had ever known.

Because she wasn't trying to be anybody. Impress anybody. Affect anybody.

She was just her.

And she was beautiful.

If this is were a different circumstance, a parallel universe perhaps, she would wipe my face clean.

Lean over.

And kiss me.

And I would let her.

But that was not going to happen today or any day.

And to daydream it would be folly.

So I did the only thing I could.

I broke the moment with a quip.

Somewhat quieter and less acerbic than my usual declarations.

"You've got a funny look on your face. Please don't tell me you shaved off my eyebrows."

She crinkled those lovely eyes amusedly at me and responded with a sexy, throaty tone I doubted she even knew was there.

"Just the one."

I adored her all the more for that reply and the following ones.

"What about my hair?"

Those expressive eyebrows of hers raised ever so slightly in anticipation.

"You really want me to cut it?"

I rolled my own back at her so casually.

"You might as well."

She was positively glowing with happiness.

"Oh my god, your mum is going to be so delighted."

I winked at her, just a little.

"Yes, well, we won't let that put us off."

And she giggled.

It was a lovely sound.

---

We almost made through an entire day of that sort of peaceful interlude.

The horror film was really just a distraction.

A distraction from Clark running her fingers through my hair.

Clipping here, clipping there.

Brushing along my neck with those light little touches to smooth the hair off me.

I kept talking to her about the film, just to have something to say.

And to enjoy her company.

And I did.

And I do believe she did, as caught up as she was with my trimming.

It was going along rather swimmingly.

Until of course Georgina arrived.

At the top of her lungs.

Apparently Mum had told her.

Clark, in the midst of all the shrieking, held her dignity quite well I might add.

Until my mother dismissed her for lunch.

No hysterics in front of the help was her motto.

Not that I really blamed her.

Clark obviously had no idea of my future plans.

And I really didn't relish the thought of her discovering them from my banshee of a baby sister.

The one who lived in Australia.

The one who hardly ever checked in.

The one who loved me as I am sure I loved her.

Enough. But not enough to be present any more than necessary.

I knew better than to try to argue with her or persuade her to see my side of the situation again.

Instead, I let her wear herself out.

Before she wore me out, I hoped.

"Has it ever occurred to you, Will, that, believe it or not, this might not be just about you?!"

Really? Well now, there's a thought.

Chapter 11: In Consideration of Others

"Has it ever occurred to you, Will, that, believe it or not, this might not be just about you?!"

Very astute observation, Georgie, thank you.

Of course I understood that my life, or lack therefore, affected more than just me. Any living, breathing, walking idiot could have figured that one out.

My mother for instance.

She suffered every single day since the accident. She worried, she fretted. She prayed.

For just about anything to make it better. Make me better.

And for so long all I did was throw my pain and hatred and resentment straight at her until she was veritably covered, coated, in the smelly, putrid mess of my misery.

A selfish bitch for wanting her only son to live on as a potato with a sentient head? No. Only a misguided, desperate woman.

Whose son has suffered a horrendous tragedy, one that she cannot fix, cannot mend.

All she wanted to do was hold on to me. Keep her child on the earth with her as long as possible.

Because she loved me.

I knew what I was doing, that my plan to go to Dignitas was horrible for her.

For her career, her religion, everything.

But most of all, no parent wants to see their child taken away from them. Suffer. Die.

She had always supported me in my endeavors, expressed a mild sense of pride.

She may not have been the kissy, huggy, crowing American mother some of my friends had.

But she loved me. And I loved her.

And I knew it was tearing her apart, my applying to Dignitas.

But which would hurt more for her, watching me decline day after day, month after month, year after year? Suffering ailment after ailment, possibly succumbing to the ravages of an even more debilitating stroke?

Or watch me end my suffering on my own terms, at my own time? Knowing deep within her that my pain had come to an end in the way I saw fit.

I knew there was no easy answer for her.

But I knew what my decision was.

And no word, no touch, no love, from anyone could ever change that for me.

Because in the end, it was all about me.

I was the only one really living this life of mine. Therefore, I was the only one who could say when it was over and when it was not.

My father had come to realize it, I believed. If not accept it, at least accept that I wanted it.

And that to deny me that release would only result in more desperate, more brutal efforts on my part to end it all.

I could see every day in his grim face that it pained him.

He didn't speak of it to me however.

Because what really could one say to their own flesh and blood, the one meant to carry the family name on into the future?

What ho, son? Got your Dignitas letter today. Still planning to off yourself then, eh?

Not really much of a conversational starter.

But I do believe he had decided his only remaining course of action as my father was to support me in my final decision, should it remain the same.

And it did.

And I respected him for that effort.

I wished my mother could look past her own pain to see the same.

To see what I needed most was release from the constant fear. The constant pain. The constant uncertainty as to how I would awaken in the morning.

But she continued to cling to her false hope. Because she loved me. Because I was her son.

Understandable, I could admit.

And just as there was nothing she could do to stop me from choosing Dignitas, there was nothing I could do to stop her from hoping otherwise.

My sister, however, had the least say in the matter.

I honestly believe Nathan or even Clark should have been granted a say over Georgie.

They were there on a daily basis. They were present.

Paid to be, yes.

But present for the things my sister managed to miss out on.

And therefore had no right to pass judgement on.

She had been there on occasion.

She had flown in upon hearing of the accident.

Stayed a couple of weeks.

Cried at my bedside.

Cried on Mummy and Daddy.

Cried her eyes right out.

And then back onto the plane to Australia.

Job couldn't wait.

And I'd never asked her to.

And now, having finally heard of my final decision to abdicate this useless, time-bomb of a body of mine, she had flown back in to quaver and rail against the horrendous wrongness of my decision.

Without ever really suffering the reality of my present condition.

I loved my sister such as we were siblings.

But she had not earned a say.

No one had earned a say because they were not living my life.

Least of all her.

I love you, Georgie. You know I do. Now move along.

She did, eventually. Fleeing back to Australia.

Her all important job.

Her all important life.

And I wished her well.

Because she was in fact, my sister.

And a decent person.

As much as I ever was before the accident anyway.

Chapter 12: A Grand Day Out

The day of The Famous Horserace Debacle was clear and palpable proof that you could love someone and completely despise them at the very same time.

I had decided, you see, that I would be completely content to wile away the reminder of my quadriplegic imprisonment with Clark in the relative comfort and solitude of my specially outfitted little flat and my mother's adjoining flower garden.

Note the word 'solitude'. Very important here.

Clark.

Nathan.

My mother. My father.

The occasional shrieking sister.

That was about the extent of it.

All I desired by way of human interaction.

On bad days, still far too much.

But ah, that Clark, never content to let well enough alone.

She had decided Nathan needed to venture out and go to the horseraces over in Longfield.

Oh, she smiled at me, so big and proud and full of her own cleverness.

That painfully transparent, overeager, little sprite.

And the Nathan, the wanker, joined right in.

With slightly less gusto, I must admit.

And I was caught.

And hated them both.

Because I just knew it would be awful.

Completely ignoring the fact that horseracing was by far the most ridiculous, pretentious of all English pastimes . . .

I mean, honestly, you'd have to be completely sloshed to cheer for those preposterous little monkey men perched on the backs of such odd-toed, frothy-mouthed, equine monstrosities.

. . . I had no abiding wish, no secret desire, no heartfelt ache to be stared-at-not-stared-at by the well-heeled snobs, the drunken rugby players, the boisterous dads off on holiday, the ladies with their hats all covered in fruit, and whomever else might be gracing the track that day.

Clark, of course, blithely ignored all my arguments and misgivings and fail-safe attempts to stay in my preferred solitude.

She was, after all, betting on waving her coinage about thereafter at three sumptuous, overcooked steak dinners.

No doubt cut into tiny bite sized portions and spoon-fed to the crip in the chair in front of any and all rubbernecking patrons of raceway hole-in-the-wall she was sure to sashay us right into.

It would be, in a word, ghastly.

And it was.

Worse than I'd even imagined, if that were possible.

She parked my cripmobile in the worst possible place.

Succeeded in getting my chair stuck in the muck not once but twice.

Her being such an overachiever and all.

The place was a veritable stew of castoffs with nothing better to do on a midday than lose their no doubt meager earnings on a bunch of tired old nags at a third-rate racetrack.

Clark, as was her God-given right, ignorantly betting on a noble steed that would have earned her more money as the newest contribution at a glue factory than a proud racing stallion.

It was garish.

But that bright, chipper, jaw-aching smile of hers stayed shellacked on her face the entire time.

Never once did she let up her irritatingly brash optimism the least little bit.

It was absolutely exhausting watching her attempt to persevere a day that was clearly out to maim, if not outright destroy, her unfailingly cheery goodwill.

And quite angering for me to be consistently ignored for everything I all but outright begged her wave the white flag of surrender and shuttle us on home.

Even if the day had been sublime, the racetrack first rate, and her horse a gallant charger with no plausible, earthly competitor, I would have struggled to maintain a congenial air.

So long shut away from all but the most sparse of human contact, only to be thrust in the middle of the sludge of the very base of it, shredded my sensitive nerves completely.

'Nails on chalkboard' is the American slang, I believe.

And it was, it really was.

I was nearly catatonic with pain and overstimulation by the time we adjourned to what was no doubt the most prestigious horse track restaurant all but the Royals patroned.

Where therein lay the most daunting obstacle for Clark to overcome yet.

Bourgeoisie snobbery.

Of the most unrelenting kind.

Clark tried.

Oh how she tried.

But the Titanic would have sunk more decisively and Clark still singing whilst shoveling coal in the furnace room before the crip and his hodgepodge entourage were granted a table.

So hard, she tried so hard, I actually was drawn outside of my own misery and began to ache for hers.

She didn't know these people wouldn't have bothered themselves to drip a drop of Perrier onto her pretty little head to put her out if she were on fire.

She didn't know prestige above all else reigned in this their pompous little kingdom so much better than all they looked their noses down upon.

All she knew was she was going to make it work.

Come hell or high water.

High water being her floundering and drowning in the sea of their self-assigned self-importance.

Badges, we had the wrong badges.

God forbid.

The wrong color, the wrong price paid. Overpaid, I could have told you without looking.

And that snooty little woman with her haughty little upturned nose.

And her snide suggestions of we poor paupers enjoying a good hog roast in a bun and applesauce downstairs in the 'relaxed dining area'. But for the current refurbishing of it, of course.

Staring-but-not-staring at me. My medical attendant, Mr. New Zealand Beer-and-Takeaway.

And the ever so earnest little sunshine pixie herself.

Trying so very hard if she didn't suffer a stress stroke and end up in a matching chairset like me, I'd smile and kiss a pig.

Just trying to make everything okay.

Make everything work.

And it was then that I knew.

That she knew.

And would never, at least until there was no other option, let me know that she knew.

About it all.

The six months.

Dignitas.

And her job.

Suicide watch.

Of the crip.

By a cheery, absolutely infuriating, absolutely lovely, insufferable little pixie named Louisa "Molahonkey" Clark.

Who finally had smiled enough, cajoled enough. Bowed and curtseyed and begged and pleaded enough.

And finally cracked.

Just as she had with me.

"You know what, Sharon?" she finally conceded with a good-natured, razor sharp tone and a poison smile. "You can stick your premier badge right up your relaxed dining area."

Found someone you hate yet, Clark? Come on, you can confess to Uncle Will.

And turned away, very nearly trembling with helpless rage at her complete and utter defeat at the hands of one I personally deemed not good enough to clean my mother's garden mud from the stained soles of Clark's leprechaun drag queen silk shoes.

And, with all the dignity she could muster, stomped us right down to the stalls.

Ordered us three hog roasts in a bun.

Beverages.

And, of course, the damn applesauce.

I did not complain. I did not make mention of the rubbernecking stall hostesses.

Or the rugby gents that had to heave me and my cripchair into the cripmobile.

Because she had tried, so very hard, to make it work.

And after being flattened by the bourgeois bitch up on high, I did not want her to hurt anymore that day.

At least until we were back in the relative safety and seclusion of my quiet little flat.

Where I could finally make myself heard.

Heard not to hurt her.

But heard so that I, her, we, would not have to suffer so again.

And because I felt, more than the tiniest bit, betrayed. Once more.

By her.

And her road-paved best intentions.

"You're no different than the rest of them. You decided what you thought you'd like me to do. And you went ahead and did it. You did what everyone else does. You decided for me."

She had no reply for that.

She couldn't, you see.

Because she knew what I was saying was the truth.

And that she was wrong.

I could only hope she would listen.

Chapter 13: Musical Cup of Tea

"It's not my cup of tea."

Oh good, bloody, walking Lord.

Nothing, literally nothing, was Clark's cup of tea.

Nothing of intelligence anyway. Nothing of depth. Nothing that required consideration.

If she hadn't already experienced it in our dismally constrictive town or watched it on her precious telly, then it wasn't her cup of tea.

I almost pitied her.

Except I couldn't.

My time-bomb quadriplegic self couldn't pity her.

Because she didn't deserve pity.

Pity was for the incapable, the lesser of the mind.

And despite however little she thought of herself, Louisa Clark was neither of those.

And henceforth absolutely not deserving of pity.

But she was deserving of something.

"I'm happy here."

"Well, you shouldn't be."

She was deserving of a good damn push.

Or several.

Because there was nothing, absolutely nothing, was keeping her from broadening her horizons.

Getting out there. Claiming the world as her own.

Perhaps not the dodgy men part if she didn't see fit. I'd actually been quite perturbed at the drunken stag partygoers hitting on her during the Muck and Mire Act Part Two of the Great Horserace Debacle only days before.

But aside from that, living, yes, really living.

Experiencing new places, new people, new things.

Dare I say it, living up to her . . .

"Oh please, don't say 'potential'."

. . . potential.

And nothing was stopping her.

Except her very own self.

And her loyalty to her struggling family perhaps.

Understandable.

And her idiot hamster wheel boyfriend.

Not.

But I had grown to care for Louisa Clark, past consideration for myself.

And if she was going to push me to live more amicably for four more long, grueling months, then I was going to push her to live more fully the rest of her life.

With and without me egging her on.

But Clark wasn't one for great and sudden leaps.

So I started small.

Reading.

The printed word.

Something beyond fashion and makeup mags (which yes, of course, had their place), thank you very much.

But something more. Something with depth. With character. With influence.

She had temporarily pilfered a tome or two of mine during the unconscious part of my Molahonkey Snow. Gotten a fair way through it before falling asleep, curled up like a cat at my feet.

And now, somewhat proudly, she had even announced to me . . .

"I've joined a library."

So she was taking some steps perhaps.

A good start.

But good, bloody, walking Lord, she'd never even been to a music concert. Save for Westlife.

Basically an Irish version of the Backstreet Boys, for you Yanks.

But, as with her book selection . . .

". . . boy-meets-girl stuff . . ."

. . . nothing of real depth.

So when I offered her the tickets my mate had offered me and she had the audacity . . .

Bloody 'My Fair Lady' indeed.

. . . to haughtily declare that she was not my project . . .

Oh my dear precious Molahonkey Clark. I am a self-entitled, demanding, rich quadriplegic cliff-jumping off the planet in a scant four months. You are my project if I make you my project.

. . . I pushed her.

Much the same way I had persevered against my combatants in the firm when I still whole and willfully employed.

And similar to them, I wore her down. Reasoned her to death.

"You've done nothing, been nowhere. How do you have the faintest idea what kind of person you are?"

She didn't much like it.

They rarely ever did.

But I never bothered to ask.

Them or her.

Because I knew.

"Open your mind."

That I was right.

"No."

She resisted of course.

"Why?"

They always did at first.

"Because I'd be uncomfortable. I feel like everyone else would know that I didn't belong."

But I was nothing if not a compelling arguementalist.

"Clark, every single place I go to now, people look at me like I don't belong."

Even going so far as to offer up myself for Exhibit A.

"I'll go if you come with me."

And dammit all, that tenacious little sprite found a loophole.

"Ugh, you're a pain in the arse."

She took it rather well, all things considered. Shrugging her shoulders and brushing off my jibe as if I, William Traynor, were naught but a lazily buzzing fly.

"So you keep telling me."

---

But for all my snarky, sophisticated, unaffected demeanor, I must admit.

When she walked in wearing that red dress, she took my breath away.

Even more so after she removed the timid scarf.

Bloody hell, Louisa. You are ravishing.

"Ka-pow!"

Yes, Nathan. Quite.

And I was quite glad of my clean-shaven face and shortened mane.

My newly dry-cleaned suit.

But still not my shined-up wheelchair.

No.

---

Just me and Clark.

And the cripmobile.

And a well-dressed crowd of staring-but-not-staring music aficionados.

I resolved to take no notice of them, to pretend that I simply was a man out for the evening in the company of a lovely young lady.

And she was a lovely young lady.

Gone were the little girl hairdos. The eye-blistering color combinations.

Leprechaun drag queen shoes.

Not that they weren't oddly endearing in their own baffling ways, mind you.

But in their place, a graceful, lovely, young woman with tastefully applied makeup, soft waves of chestnut tresses. And well-yet-modestly displayed cleavage.

I maybe a quadriplegic man but I am still a man.

Who, for all the pomp and circumstance surrounding us, still took it upon herself to dispose of the irritating neck tag . . .

"Is it really troubling you?"

"No. I just thought I'd bring it up for fun."

. . . in most unpretentious way . . .

"Do we have any scissors in the bag?"

"I don't know, Clark. Believe it or not, I rarely pack it myself."

. . . and rather practically . . .

"Don't move."

"Why- "

. . . with her teeth . . .

I wonder if I should tell her the nape of a man's neck is known to be a hugely erogenous zone, even for quads . . . oh my, Clark . . .

. . . as those modestly endowed breasts pressed against my . . .

Hello, ladies . . .

. . . shoulder . . .

I think there's another clothing tag that requires attention under the lobe of my right ear, my dear . . .

. . . instead of spending a few precious seconds riffling through the carryall bag.

"Got it!"

And then just I was beginning to recover myself from the theatrics I am sure the other patrons were no doubt eagle-eyeing . . .

"Oh, come on, it's not as if they've never seen a girl nibbling on a bloke's collar before."

. . . Clark resettled herself next to me . . .

"Anyway, I think we should both just be grateful that it wasn't in your trousers."

And sent me reeling once more.

Holy God.

"Ooh, look, they're starting!"

She isn't even trying, is she?

---

The thing about certain types of music is that they either affect you or they don't.

I have seen people moved to tears by drivel I wouldn't force upon a cat.

Or the owner of that motorbike.

Well, maybe the owner of that motorbike.

The point is, I didn't know how Clark wouldn't be transported on high by the symphony concert. But the possibility, however slim, did remain.

And so when the conductor lowered his baton and the ensuing concerto enveloped us in perfect sound, I couldn't help but glance over at my little Molahonkey sprite.

She was, if her countenance was any telling, completely transcended. Just as I'd hoped she'd be.

Her face a picture of beauty and wonder.

Nothing existed for her but the music it seemed.

And I was glad.

So very glad.

I had the thought of stealing my hand over and laying it on hers.

Feeling the warm, welcoming life with the music flowing all through it as it was mine.

She would glance over at me and smile.

One of those warm, lovely smiles she freely gifted me with so frequently of her own accord.

And I would smile back. A secret smile, telling her a little of how I was beginning to feel about her, my beautiful, ethereal-in-a-way-entirely-all-her-own Louisa.

Then I remembered I couldn't.

Would never be able to.

And that in a few months, it wouldn't matter anyway.

And a vast sorrow swept through my unfeeling body, so strong I could barely hold my smile level as I forced myself to turn away from her lovely, radiant face.

And back toward the symphony.

Letting their musical machinations fill me up as much as they could.

Lift me away out of my chair.

And out into the ether.

Where there were no unresponsive nerve endings. No blinding pain. No pressure sores or ricocheting blood pressure.

Nothing untoward of any kind.

And I stayed there . . .

"So you're not a classical music person then."

"Hated every minute of it."

. . . even after we had physically left the auditorium and returned home . . .

"Oh, I could tell. Especially that bit where the violin was singing by itself."

"There was something in my eye."

With the girl in the red dress.

"Right, well, we'd better get you in."

"Wait a minute, Clark."

And phantom waves of music echoing in my ears.

"You okay?"

"I don't . . . I don't to go in yet. Just a few minutes more."

Just as long as I could possibly manage.

Chapter 14: Reparations and Preparations

It was difficult to try and explain to someone as able and free as Clark how taxing even the smallest thing as relying on someone else to write a thank you note for you could be.

Without sounding completely supercilious and sniffy.

I suppose it stemmed from my dear, sweet, earnest, proper mother.

After my accident, when the consolations and well-wishes were pouring in, she nearly worked herself to the bone attempting to write thank you notes to everyone.

Falsely cheery with her 'how shall we respond's and 'anything special you'd like to say's.

And of course her starchy and proper 'I'll just write 'written on behalf of' shall I?'s.

It became completely insufferable.

So when Clark attempted to guilt me into allowing her to write a thank you note to my symphony friend for our tickets, I suppose, simply put, I threw my own paddy a bit.

Completely unfazed of course, Louisa went right ahead and boldly proclaimed me an arse.

And wrote her own note for the post, cutting me cleanly out of the entire process all together.

She then proceeded to purchase and install top of the line voice recognition software on my device so that I might pen my own texts. Wirelessly connected to my home printer for easy accessibility of course.

I groused at first, feeling conspicuously like a doddering old great aunt. One of those with a panache for spritzing all her letters with dreadfully flowery perfumes.

Or, more aptly, a blithering madman declaring his completely unintelligible prose to the walls, the floors, and thin air.

A linguistic Don Quixote, if you will.

Wait until I introduced Clark to him.

Who by the way, managed to rouse me out of my obstinate streak regarding it all by cheekily suggesting I begin each and every notation with a self-important 'Take a letter, Miss Clark'.

Insufferable girl.

Still and all, I grew to quite like my new found freedom.

And annoying as it was, I knew she was right.

And felt slightly good to be put in my place so perfectly by a strong woman other than my mother.

And so to show Clark my appreciation, I dictated a thank you note especially for her.

Enlisted the chuckling Nathan to mark and post it.

And doled out a small, self-satisfied smile when Clark thanked me for it.

Relating that she had laughed so hard the bus driver asked if her lottery numbers had come up.

---

Though she still insisted on frequent outings, Clark had finally gotten the hint that I hated being goggled at in my chair and began planning quieter, less public excursions.

She even took to having two or three different ideas and frankly asking me which I favored.

I was so relieved to have someone growing a brain and truly considering my personal preferences, I felt like rewarding her with a medal.

And the Nobel-Not-A-Complete-Git Medal goes to . . . Molahonkey Clark!

---

Truth be told, it was tiring, exhausting, and more than a little difficult physically to be on the move so much more than I had attempted during the last year.

Embarrassingly so, seeing as how I had once been a cliff-jumping, wave-riding daredevil.

But what wasn't difficult for me was to accept her invitation and call on Clark for her birthday meal and celebration.

At her very own home, nevertheless.

With her family, even.

And Running Man.

One might assume such common folk would be the plight of my well-to-do upbringing.

A common misconception.

No, before the accident, dining properly with my family at the formal table was at the very bottom of my 'ready-to-do' list.

Stiff conversation. Proper etiquette.

It had all been so very pointlessly exhausting.

I had much preferred the small table in the kitchen.

With its floor dog and lack of elbow room.

Not to say I hadn't enjoy a sophisticated meal of rich, royal delicacies.

But I'd also traveled the world over and again in search of discovery and adventure.

Dined on packaged beef jerky while strapped into the side of a mountain.

Eaten sparse handfuls of unmentionable edibles with loinclothed tribesmen on the way to Kilimanjaro.

And found 'common' people the most enjoyable people with whom to pass the time.

So it was quite easy to choose calling on Clark and her family for a birthday celebration when she hesitantly brought the subject up on our afternoon picnic.

I get nervous when a girl wants me to meet her parents, I had dryly informed her.

Not true.

At least not in Clark's case.

That was just a jab to keep up my slightly off-putting character.

And to elicit one of those knowing, sunny smiles of hers.

Actually, I was practically giddy at the prospect of finally meeting the people who had so influenced my Molahonkey Clark.

Papa Clark, sir, exactly how sloshed were you really to pen the now infamous 'Molahonkey' song?

And were you aware as well that it would become to be known as a sort of weirdly appropriate anthem for people in need of a good brightening?

Incidently, ma'am, when did you first suspect your little Louisa would have a proclivity toward eye-blistering, yet somehow still visually pleasing wardrobe creations?

These were, of course, the hard-hitting questions I was planning to unleash at the dinner table.

Nathan joshed a little here and there as we readied me.

Shaved.

Combed.

Jacketed even.

"If I didn't know better, mate, I'd think you were nervous about a little girlfriend-family meet-n-greet."

I cast him the wearying eye.

Which of course, he completely ignored.

"She's not my girlfriend, Nathan. And she has a boyfriend, an idiot one. And only if her father tries to fireman deadlift me up to the loo."

He shook his head, as if seeing right through my self-deception.

"Come on then, Cinderella. Your pumpkin awaits."

I smiled slyly.

"Does that make you one of the mice?"

He snarked right back.

"If it does, we'd better have you home before midnight so I can get a start on those tubes."

I shook my head at him disparagingly. Earning a jaunty wink in return.

Good man, Nathan. Good man.

Chapter 15: Well-Wishes and Stripey Legs

But back to the Clark family and their homey two story flat.

They were quite delightful.

Her friendly bear of a father, with his ever present beer cup.

Sticking his finger metaphorically in it when he naturally held out his hand to shake welcome.

And chuckling good-naturedly (and might I add, quite relievedly) when I . . .

"A curtsy will be fine."

. . . broke the awkward tension with an easy smile and a smoothly-spoken quip.

Her anxious but charming mother . . .

"This chicken is going to be spoiled if he's much longer."

. . . fluttering about, never able to sit still for a minute for graciously caring for someone else's well-being.

Thankfully however, I must note, with nary a perfect hair nor pinched face in sight.

Her quiet, owl-eyed grandfather, slightly lost but wholly accepted by his loved ones.

She fit in perfectly with all of them. And they fit her.

Her father, sincerely and not unkindly, inquiring as to my reasoning on abstaining from returning to work after the accident.

Her mother, seeming quite pleased to be attending to a fully seated dinner table.

All quite warm and welcoming.

And then there was him.

Patrick.

Mr. Unapologetic Twenty-Eight Minutes Late.

Mr. Slightly Malodourous Neoprene Track Suit.

The Running Man himself.

Foolishly full of himself and misguidedly magnanimous.

". . . a look at my books and see if there was any physio I could recommend."

Well, it was my fault really, I suppose.

Opening my mouth to make polite conversation to divert attention away from him openly staring in dismay.

At his little Lou feeding me bits of Josie's delicious supper and casually wiping my mouth with her delicate fingers.

She, and I a little less perhaps, had grown quite accustomed to it all.

The mother and father mannerly making no note of it.

But Running Man.

We were going to have to head him off at the pass for sure.

I considered catching her quick little fingers, seductively nibbling them as I winked devilishly at the already perturbed bloke.

But decided that would be uncouth and disrespectful to her.

And her lovely family.

And might kill him outright.

So instead I took a more gentlemanly approach.

Since the thing he obviously loved, admired, and cherished the absolute most in the entire world was himself, I inquired as to his line of work.

"So, Patrick, Louisa tells me you're a personal trainer."

I thought I would make it easy on us all.

I was wrong.

". . . with a really good regime, you could see a difference in your muscle memory."

Like a spontaneously resolved spinal column? Sure, mate.

Everyone at the table seemed taken aback and aghast at his ridiculous postulations.

As if I, a rich, well-connected man once in his prime wouldn't have done, searched out, attempted, everything humanly possible to regain his severed life back.

Clark instantly became very nearly livid . . .

"Patrick!" she hissed, whilst still managing to deftly feed me a bite or two. "You know nothing about it!"

. . .with embarrassment and exasperation at him.

He remained . . .

"What? I'm just trying to . . ."

. . . obstinately oblivious to his own impertinent folly.

And she was completely indignant.

"Yeah, well, don't."

Sulled him up for a while.

But he bounced back in amazing form by the end.

". . . trying to help my girlfriend get the best out of her job."

And continued, even unto the close of the evening, to vex me to absolutely no end.

And so, me being me, I bided my time and played nice until I could vex him right back.

"You're a lucky man. She certainly gives a good bed bath."

In the words of Nathan the Great, Ka-pow!

Let that eat away at your brains, mate! If you've actually got any, that is.

Louisa's mum and dad were suitably amused. Stifling their laughter resolutely behind smirking lips.

As was my right hand medical attendant and chauffeur for the evening, Nathan.

But old Pat-Pat, the Running Man, on the other hand, was not.

His face was at that moment was almost worth having sit through his idiotic nonsense all evening.

Louisa looked positively mortified and I wondered what sort of wearisome interrogation good ol' Pat-Pat . . .

What in the bloody hell does she see in that running wanker anyway?!

. . . might put her through when the evening's revelries had ended.

It might put a damper on her birthday but Louisa Clark was a big girl in her stripey legs and could surely handle the git herself.

Though why she would choose to was beyond my comprehension.

The evening had provided me more than a clue though.

Clark was a get-along-er. She frequently went along with things not necessarily her preference in order to be agreeable.

So quite possibly, she wasn't aware she was deserving of somebody better than Running Man.

Or he had been one thing when she had met him and evolved into Running Man later.

Either way, he was a real tosser, as Nathan would have said.

The entire time, parading his lack of faith in his own self-worth so blatantly as to be threatened by a bloody quadriplegic.

Plopping her one on the mouth in a way that was obvious he rarely, if ever, did in front of people.

Much less her parents.

And couldn't even procure a suitable birthday present for her.

Her parents, most likely the mum, had made a memory book for her that was quite apropos for any good family member birthday. Slimmed down to a dime or not.

She could keep it, look back on it. And remember.

If not perfect memories, then the perfect intention and love of them that gave her the book.

Very nice.

Very loving.

Very considerate.

A present I myself would have been proud to receive had I been her.

And she was.

Welling up with tears and hugs and thank yous.

Louisa Clark was nothing if not appreciative and gracious of those who tried.

But Running Man Pat-Pat sorely tested even her seemingly limitless reserves.

Proudly presenting her with a rectangular box that I swear couldn't have frightened that Molahonkey butterfly-haired girl more if it had contained an actual live pit viper.

The gift itself appeared slightly less deadly.

Supposedly.

A necklace.

Thin and delicate and utterly cheerless.

The exact opposite of any characteristic (save the terrible outfit, surely not hers, from our first meeting) I had ever witnessed from Louisa at any time.

Inscribed with the name of her loving, doting, very, very, very important boyfriend.

No, not 'Running Man'.

No, not 'Wanker, M.D.'

'Patrick'.

If he had stood up in the middle of the room and urinated on Louisa's black and yellow jumper, it couldn't have been more clear he was marking his territory as her boyfriend.

What a bloody, walking git. Oh, pardon. Running git.

Not to brag but my present trumped his completely.

And I wasn't even her boyfriend.

Just, in the most strictest of terms, her employer.

Well, the helpless, quadriplegic son of her employer, technically.

And I had managed to do the unthinkable. The unfathomable. The impossible.

I had listened to her stories.

I had selected the thing that made her face most truly and honestly glow like a Christmas candle on the Eve.

I had forgone pursuing an interest of my own, nay even, made her an interest of my own.

And gone on-line.

Searched by keyword and phrase.

Found the seller.

Contacted the seller.

Placed my order.

And even, to top it all off, been further inspired to repeat the entire process to find wrapping paper purchased solely to spark Miss Louisa Clark's individual interest and unique creativity.

Adorned with brightly colored Chinese kimonos.

Absolute, complete, divine Molahonkey.

My mother, quite mystified, had said nothing direct about it, as was her way. But summoned the maid to wrap it and place it in my carryall bag.

And that was how, by the complete realigning of the moons and constellations, I, an impotent, helpless, hopeless quadriplegic, made Louisa Clark scream in pure ecstasy.

"Oh! Oh my God! I don't believe it!"

When all her real boyfriend received was a rigidly courteous smile.

And a falsely chirped thank you.

And that's how it's done. You bloody git.

He could have done the same himself, I shouldn't wonder.

Perhaps in less than twenty-eight minutes, even.

Save for shipping.

Louisa's father was slightly bewildered.

Her mother somewhat less so. Perhaps fondly remembering a silly, happy, little girl so many summers ago.

Her grandfather just happy that she was happy.

And Patrick the Running Man, completely and utterly irritated and dumbfounded.

And me, well, to be honest, my heart completely soared.

Breaking into a smile so big my mouth almost hurt. Laughing happily at Clark.

At her pure, unmitigated, unbridled joy.

Especially as I watched her pretend not to sneak glances at her bumblebee stripey legs for the remainder of the evening.

---

I lay in bed that night waiting for sleep.

Of thinking of Louisa.

Her family seemed genuinely caring.

Her father, speaking for them all I am certain, thanking her for helping keep the family afloat during what had obviously been a recently difficult time for them.

But still remained completely unaware of the extraordinary prize he, and they all, had in their stripey-legged sprite.

Bragging of how it was the sister with the brains.

And stamping Louisa as a somewhat of a sweet simpleton, to just-good-to-get-along status.

That was my only contention with them.

And her.

That none of them saw just how special and amazing she was.

And I wondered how it came to be thus.

It was clear Louisa had brains and cleverness and tenacity to spare.

She had been accepted to Manchester years before, she had told me.

To study fashion, of course.

And though that was no surgeon or lawyer, there was a certain amount of specialty there.

The ability to look at nothing and see and create something.

Something pleasing for the enjoyment of others.

So how, was my unasked question, that it came to be that she had made herself so little?

When she could be so much.

Chapter 16: This and That and Clark

It had, quite understandably, become a nearly all-consuming obsession.

The controversial subject of the right of a patient to die.

I pored over the articles, read the interviews.

The terminal woman.

The football player.

The reason was quite easy to ascertain.

I was trying to reassure myself.

That I was not alone, not crazy.

But justified.

And that there were others that, had I been able to ask them, would widen their eyes, draw ragged breath.

And become somewhat misty-eyed.

Whispering ever so reverentially.

"You understand too?"

And I did. I really did.

And I knew they did as well.

The fear. The uncertainty.

The depression and anger and sadness.

As long as those last, desperate six months were, I cannot imagine how even much longer they might have been without Clark.

She and her everly effervescent self.

I know that she knew.

Where directly or just by her intuition.

And didn't want me to know she knew.

I could only imagine the stress it must have caused her.

Trying to buoy me up under the weight of my determination to end my life. Proving she was so much stronger, so much more resilient than even she knew.

I felt guilty about that, I really did.

But I couldn't change my mind, you see.

Not with alternative whispering in the deep tissues of my brain every second of every minute of every day.

No, in fact, it could only strengthen my resolve.

To end my suffering. To end hers for me.

And to not become sucked in to the false security that it would be alright, it could get better.

Desperately holding on year after year, hoping some new medical miracle would present itself.

And risk losing even more of myself to a new illness, a new physical detriment.

No, I couldn't do that.

With or without my lovely, brightly smiling beauty Louisa.

I had promised my parents six months.

And that's what I would deliver.

So I smiled. I hid my pain as best I could.

Hid my fear, my despondency.

And did my best to focus in on her.

Louisa Clark.

Her stripey legs.

Her colorful wardrobe combinations.

Her wiggly eyebrows and her bright laughter.

I focused in on my Molahonkey sprite.

And let her whisk me off more and more frequently to the places she, and I, wished to go.

The Morris dancers and their bell pads and handkerchiefs and occasional face paint.

The open-air concert, where I could let the music drift over me and, out of the corner of my eye, watch Louisa bathed in sunlight.

On one accidental occasion, a rather dreary film about a girl with a terminal illness.

To which I thought we might possibly have to call somebody to come relieve Clark as she worked herself into a veritable tizzy of mortification and worry over me.

I even managed to enjoy myself to a certain degree. Save for the film.

And I most definitely enjoyed the company of Miss Louisa Clark.

With her butterfly hair clips and musical laughter.

Bright blue eyes.

And leprechaun drag queen shoes.

She was so earnest in her efforts. So painfully earnest and hopeful.

I appreciated her efforts.

And also the fact that she never gave me an iota of leeway.

Jibing me when I needed it. Debating me.

Threatening every sort of fonging were I to misbehave.

In short, I suppose, being there for me and with me.

And making me want to try.

Not to live on indefinitely in my subjecated state, no.

Nothing could make me want that.

But make me want to try to enjoy the time I had left.

And her.

She seemed to give herself over so absolutely to it that it made me think about the future.

Not my future, for I had none.

And not my parents nor sister, for though they did love me, they would find some way to go about their own way.

But Clark. Her future.

Once I was gone and she was again a free agent, she would fade once more into the wallpaper.

Eye-blistering wallpaper, perhaps.

She would go home to her well-meaning parents.

Her hamster-wheel idiot boyfriend.

And her tiny, suffocating, confining hometown.

She would go along.

She would help make ends meet.

Noble and self sacrificial enough.

And she would never do anything outside those restrictions.

But then one day, she would look up and realize she missed out.

Or she would never consider it at all.

Which seemed to me to be the gentler, yet more disconcerting, possibility.

And so, I secretly began to factor Louisa Clark into my upcoming plans.

---

If there was one thing I had learned about Louisa, it was that despite her proclamation that she'd 'never hated anybody', she held in reserve a grand amount of disgust for anyone who harmed those she cared for.

In other words, she was very loyal.

If someone did you wrong, she disliked them by association.

When Alicia and Rupert's wedding invitation arrived by post, dripping with gold filigree, I was surprisingly unfeeling about it.

Alicia and I had been together for nearly nine months at the time of my accident, a personal record for me.

She was blondly attractive and leggy. Intelligent and talented in her decorative skills.

We enjoyed each other's company, yet she wasn't clingy and needy.

I had liked her. Quite a lot, actually.

Nearly nine months' worth.

Then the motorbike and I'd had an upclose, personal chat.

My life had shattered around me, like my spine.

And I had driven her away.

She would have gone away on her own, I believe.

In months or years.

And by all rights she should have.

I'm sure she had suffered at least some guilt over her eventual fall into the pale arms of dear Rupert.

But now they were to be wed.

And dutifully, well, her parents, had invited the mutual quadripelegic friend, Will Traynor.

And that was how Clark found me.

Staring at the invitation.

And wondering how I really and truly felt.

And thinking that perhaps I should turn up.

Just to resolve the matter with myself, say a mental goodbye.

Or rehash my "Left Foot" role.

I hadn't yet decided.

She seemed to have a somewhat simpler reaction.

"She's got some nerve. What the hell's a couscoussier anyway?"

God bless you, Clark. And your leprechaun drag queen shoes.

I said no more about it. And she followed suit.

---

Because I had my hands quite full.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Continuing my attempt to expand Clark's mind.

Further her education, as it were.

Encourage her to explore and consider new ideas.

She was insufferably stubborn and opinionated, of course.

Especially in regards to The Red Queen.

A rather lengthy exposition on human nature in regard to sexuality.

And Clark took to it like a duck to water.

Or rather, the disparagement of it.

Becoming rather huffy at the notion that women don't migrate toward a male based on romantic love. But on dominant survival traits.

Arms folded about her bosom, eyes squinched up, tenor irritated.

"There's one thing this Matt Ridley bloke hasn't factored in."

I looked at her, unknowingly beautiful in her righteous anger toward a man she'd never laid eyes on.

"Oh, yes?"

And she drove the final nail right into his literary coffin. With a definite finality.

"What if the genetically superior male is actually a bit of a dickhead?"

I grinned at her despite myself.

Touché, my dear Clark. Touché.

Chapter 17: On A Clear Day

I don't know why I took her up to the castle.

Maybe I was feeling melancholy and wanted to recapture, if only for a moment, the magic of my youth.

When anything was possible and the motorbike was still years and years away.

Or maybe I just wanted to take Clark someplace I thought would make her happy because she strove so diligently to make me happy.

Either way, the day was beautiful and breezy and if dear Louisa Clark was a bit chilly, well, I was certainly secretly enjoying the sight of those lovely legs of hers strolling beside me.

She had told me so much about her life, glitter wellies and so forth, that I found it easy and natural to relay to her my first kiss there in view of the very rampart itself.

Clark seemed to believe I had always been a self-important arse.

"Probably didn't hurt that you owned the castle."

Ah but, Clark, you doth assume too much.

"Maybe I should have told her," I replied off-handly. "She dumped me a week later for a boy who worked at the local shop."

Weep for me, Clark. Weep for my twelve-year old lovelorn self. No? Ah, well, c`est la vie then.

It felt good, relatively, to be out in the sunshine.

Watching Clark smile. Hearing that lovely laugh of hers.

Sending her sweet little heart pitter-patter with worry as I, once an avid base jumper, bravely and wildly negotiated the narrow passages. . .

"Oooh, you're never going to fit through there!"

. . . and steep ridges of the worn castle stone.

"Will?! Will, stop! It's . . . oooh, it's very, very dangerous!"

Ah, come on, Clark! Think I'll fall and get hurt? Broken bone? Spinal cord injury, perhaps?

"You coming?" I called back over my shoulder to her, mischievous grin lighting my face.

---

In earlier months, I had avoided the castle altogether.

Afraid if I ventured there, I would be overcome with an undeniable urge to drive up to the highest point my hated chair would reach.

And roll right off the side.

Fracturing my skull, shattering my face, driving rib splinters into my lungs, heart.

And failing, even then, to die.

But instead remaining on, stuck and helpless even more so.

Indefinitely.

But with my Molahonkey Clark by my side, I could manage it.

If only to see her gaze with wonder out across the vista.

The perfectly trimmed lawn, once the busy, muddy, main ward of the castle.

And perhaps dream of someplace even more lovely. And farther away.

So when she inevitably asked after a discussion of my childhood adventure fantasies . . .

"Did you pretend you were a warrior prince?"

. . . minor felonies . . .

"Even nicked a sword from one of the exhibits."

. . . and my favorite place . . .

"So where's better than this, then?"

. . . I considered my answer carefully.

Mt Kilimanjaro wouldn't appeal to her.

Too much outright danger. Too much strenuous physical activity.

I'd practically crawled the last thousand or so meters.

And Clark'd balked at the height of the castle.

So, no on the Mt.

There were so many adventures, so many ways I'd physically pushed myself in my years of travel . . .

Oh, the cliff jumping. Nothing but a pair of boardshorts on, and crystal clear blue-green ocean so so far below . . .

. . . It was easy at times to forget the peaceful, still moments.

The ones where you don't worry about the time or the schedule or the next meeting.

And just be.

"Paris. Place Dauphine, right by the Pont Neuf."

Just speaking the words took me back.

The sights. The sounds. The people.

All moving smoothly along their own rhythm and time.

The pretty girls sauntering by, giving me the eye.

The gay men wrapped up in their scarfs and hats and coffee cups.

The women of a certain age, the ones who weren't worried about their wrinkles and grey hair.

And were all the more beautiful for their natural, confident beauty.

The tiny outdoor tables, barely large enough to hold a strong coffee and a warm plate of croissant with unsalted butter and strawberry jam.

Sitting, just sitting, not so differently than I reposed now.

And enjoying the company and talk of a good friend.

Or alone and content enough for the moment. To watch the world go by.

And drink it all in.

I could see it in my mind's eye. Almost smell it.

Feel it.

Taste it on my tongue.

Hear the rapid, melodic speech patterns of the locals as they strolled to and from wherever they chose to go.

It was warming and nostalgic and bittersweet all at the same time.

That I had been there before.

And never would again.

Clark, her beautiful face so earnest, leapt right on to my Paris without a moment's hesitation.

"So let's go! We could get on the Eurostar right now!"

And there it was.

I had finally inspired her.

She wanted to go.

I wanted her to go.

But not with me.

Not like this.

"You don't get it, Clark."

And she, the lovely sprite, didn't.

I couldn't, wouldn't, go back there ever again.

Not as this.

The crip in the chair.

Being refused taxi by drivers eyeing my cumbersome conveyance.

Being pitied and turned away from by those same girls.

Losing power in my wheelchair pack because we'd forgotten the socket adaptors.

I refused absolutely to destroy the beauty, the magic, the perfection of that little French square by returning there as a bumbling, awkward quadriplegic.

I tried to keep the sorrow of my voice as I relayed as much as I could to Clark.

Stay emotionally aloof from the entire thing.

I think I almost succeeded.

Clark's face understandably fell and I hated sullying her joy, dashing her hope.

But I just couldn't bear it.

Any of it.

So I tossed my grief, metaphorically speaking, over the edge of the castlewalls.

And reached out to my lovely Louisa again.

My resolve strengthened yet again.

Only this time for the positive.

I know. I was surprised too.

"I'll tell you where we will go though. Alicia's wedding."

She was understandly surprised at my bravery/stupidity/rashness.

"Really?"

But I wasn't quite the social daredevil I once was.

"Will you come with me?"

I wanted, needed her there with me.

She responded as I knew she would. Smiling bashfully and with pleasure that I would care to invite her to such a lavish event.

It was a beautiful thing.

"If you want me to."

Oh my dear, beautiful, Molahonkey girl. It would be my honor.

I simply smiled and said nothing.

Chapter 18: Spite Of My Sprite

My quadriplegic life had made me bitter for a long time before I met Louisa Clark.

And I still hated, resented, despised my current situation of trapped-ness.

But it had forced me to slow down. Literally.

And think. Consider.

I wasn't a complete arse before.

But meeting Louisa, spending time with her on a daily (save for lonely Sundays) basis, had changed me.

Was changing me.

Into somebody else.

A different Will.

A new Will.

"Let me get this straight. You two are betting actual money that on a Friday night I would be at home either reading a book or watching television?"

A Will who could still be somewhat of an arse.

I glanced at Nathan floating in front and above me, haloed in English sunlight.

He paused in my physio. Glanced my way.

Caught somewhere between guilt at Clark's accusatory tone and amusement at me being caught being snarky.

And Clark.

Face drawn into a frown.

Wiggly worm eyebrows knitted down above the hurt in her sky-blue eyes.

And I knew I had gone right ahead and stepped in it.

"So, come on then, Clark. What exciting events have you got planned for this evening?"

Even brought the subject up myself, moments before.

Wanker.

She had tried, as was her way, to be light and confidently unassuming.

Advanced martial arts.

Oooh, lovely! Judo chop Running Man for me, will you?

Monte Carlo by way of helicopter.

Ah yes. Don't forget to take in the Grand Prix.

Concluding in a cocktail in Cannes.

Bravo, Clark. Glad to see my schooling you in arts of sarcasm and lying are paying off then.

And I, full of my old self, had insisted Nathan pay me right then and there.

"Tenner."

She recovered quite swiftly though.

Advancing toward us at a pace. Me, the poor quad, supine on ground. Nathan kneeling with my limp arm in his grip.

Oooh, coming to stomp me, Clark? Careful though. I believe I might not be able to refrain from looking up that little skirt. Disabled, you know.

Instead, she snatched the coinage and brazenly declared her night at the cinema would be on us.

I really didn't mind.

Whatever got her moving.

---

I will say, the thing that was unique about our relationship, such as it was, was that we were forced by my mother's stay-close ultimatum she had no doubt pressed upon Clark, to be very near to each other at all times.

And Clark never was one for keeping her face pinched and closed.

As my mother and father.

Her parents to a certain extent.

Her and Running Man.

I believe, save for her sister, I was one of the few people Louisa would openly argue with when she was angry.

And boy, was she angry.

"You know, I could have been horrible to you back there," Clark relayed to me as she diced vegetables for my supper later on.

I had thought it was over of course.

"I could have pointed out that you do nothing either."

Just assumed.

"I know it's a joke," she continued, gesturing vaguely with the knife.

I was wrong.

"But you just made me feel really like crap."

I have always been careful of women brandishing weaponry.

"If you were going to bet on my boring life, did you have to make me aware of it?"

And hurt feelings.

"Couldn't you and Nathan just have had it as some kind of private joke?"

I deserved it really.

"Sorry."

But she wasn't quite there yet.

"Well, you don't look sorry!"

I hadn't wanted to hurt her feelings.

But I was angry too. Pissed, if I were to be honest.

Because sweet little Louisa Clark was stubborn, tough in her own way.

And all my casual conversation in the world hadn't seemed to make a dent in her small minded approach to life.

I wanted her to go.

Out there.

Anywhere.

Paris. Africa.

Australia, even.

Once upon a time, Louisa Clark had been ready for the world. Ready to get out there. Ready to go and see and do.

Had told me so herself.

I didn't know what had stalled her.

By her stories, her family hadn't always struggled so. They hadn't always needed her to stay near.

But she had.

Out of love. Out of compassion. Out of selflessness.

And maybe something I hadn't been able to ascertain yet.

And now she had another excuse.

Me.

Content she was. Perfectly content.

To live out her entire existence within a five mile radius.

Hidden in the shadow of a castle. Her sister.

Her eye blistering clothes and little girl hairdos.

And whatever else there was to hide behind.

So I, perhaps a little cruelly, had tried to force her see what she was doing to herself.

I was also envious.

She had the entire world laid out before her.

And didn't even care.

I had once. And I had filled it with as much as I could manage.

Occasionally more.

And I never, not once, regretted it.

Never would.

It was true that some, a lot of it, cost money.

Money she didn't have.

Money her family didn't have.

And I couldn't quite tell her my plans to fix all that.

Because she would inevitably argue. Disagree.

Refuse.

So I had resolved that part of it must wait.

Until I was no longer present to be argued with.

And the other half, well, just required the proper leverage with which to secure it.

Which required a bit more time and strategy.

But first I decided to get an infection and go have a stay at hospital.

Again.

Bloody walking brilliant.

Chapter 19: Good Ink

Well done, Clark! There just may be hope for you yet.

It was a cute little thing.

The fat little bumblebee.

I had no doubt it was quite happy.

Resting jauntily on her milky white hip like that.

I dare say I would be quite happy as well.

But I digress.

I never thought she'd really do it.

Not until she climbed up in that chair.

Refusing to bite her lip in nervousness. Refusing to squeal as the sharp little needle buzzed over her flesh.

I was surprised, to say the least.

And impressed.

She'd been trotting me off here and there and yonder since my release from hospital.

I'd considered refusing at first.

I was exhausted, depleted, and depressed.

Hospital was a place where they nearly killed you trying to save your life.

Constant rounds. Medicines. The complete lack of physical privacy, even more so than at home.

And, of course, someone always moaning in the next bed.

Ah shut it, you wanker. Leave a man to expire in peace, won't you? I can't even plug my ears.

I missed Clark's presence during my stay. But even she threatened to work my last nerve, fretting over me to no end.

Additionally, I thought a break from constant energy and attention to me might be good for her.

Never turn down a holiday, Clark. Even from the company of the great quadriplegic, Will Traynor.

And so the doctors improved my so-called health. And sent me back alive.

The wankers.

Once I got home, I wanted to retreat inside myself. Sit alone and quietly watch out my French windows at the hours, days, and final weeks of my quadriplegic incarceration slipping by without me.

Listen to music.

Watch my films.

Sleep, even. Joyous, rapturous sleep where anything was possible.

Whatever the pastime, I wanted to do it in the quiet and isolation of my specially modified little flat.

Clark was welcome to join if she wanted.

But quietly, if you please, very quietly.

She, on the other hand, seemed to have a different agenda.

She wanted to go.

Out.

Daily. Or very near.

I'm taking your advice, she proclaimed boldly to me. Trying new things. But you have to come with me.

Clever, she thought she was. Quite clever.

I could almost believe her.

If not for the thinly veiled urgency in her earnestness.

I suspected she was planning all these outings as a way to convince me to live.

I had, after all, been in the business of convincing people to my way of things for as long as I could remember.

Making them think they're doing you a favor is strategy number one.

I considered allowing her insistence and suspected reasoning behind it to make me angry.

I considered telling her to bugger off.

And found I could do neither.

Agreeing to tally forth here, there, and yonder on various expeditions made Clark happy.

And seeing her happy was quite nearly the only thing that made me at all happy.

So I agreed.

Sometimes grudgingly. And with my customary snarkiness.

Though still somewhat more gently than in the beginning.

And, despite myself, the most extraordinary thing began to happen.

I did begin to feel better. A little, anyway.

Seeing Louisa discover new things, have new experiences, made me willing to try to smile again.

Seeing her learn to organize, take charge, think on her feet. Accomplish.

Discover that she possessed brains and competence and determination she never even knew she had.

And I knew that each experience, each endeavor, was simply practice for a time when the world would open up to her.

And she could confidently go forward into it, knowing that she could handle whatever came along.

After all, if Louisa 'Molahonkey' Clark could constantly engineer outings capable of making a jaded, depressed, suicidal quadriplegic moderately happy and entertained, she could do anything.

There were a few missteps of course.

The art museum.

Can you not see it, Clark? Ghastly.

The lift-defunct cinema.

Tax dollars hard at work, I see. Well done, mates.

The indoor swimming excursion.

Absolutely not.

The vocalist was good.

Pity she doesn't know the Molahonkey song, eh, Clark?

As was the winetasting.

'Mum told me it was rude to spit'. Oh good Lord. Are you joking?

But my favorite, by far, was the Tattoo and Piercing Parlor.

An unplanned excursion, a casual remark as we drove by on our way home.

Many grand things come from such, you know.

Unplanned events.

Save for the motorbike, of course.

Then again, Clark had come of it.

So, a mixture, really.

"I always quite fancied a tattoo."

Your wish is my command, Clark.

Though she was 'only kidding'.

Too late now, Louisa. You've already said.

She had a number of excuses of course.

Of course.

I shot them down, one by one.

"My dad hates them."

Oh, that's to be expected. His job as a father and all.

"Patrick hates them too."

Oh bloody hell, Clark. It is absolutely imperative for you to get one now!

"I might get claustrophobic."

That's fear of enclosed spaces, Clark. Not needles and ink.

"I might change my mind once it was done."

Meh.

"Come on then," I challenged my Molahonkey sprite. "What would you have?"

She blushed and after a bit more cajoling, I pried the answer from her.

"Promise you won't laugh?"

Nope.

A bumblebee. Black and yellow.

Stripey legs incarnate.

Perfection.

"Pull over."

And those lovely eyes just panicked.

So after a bit more coercion, I finally spoke the words I knew would convince her.

"I will if you will."

Triple dog dare you, as they say.

And so we did.

---

The stop was a huge success.

It was obvious Clark was quite taken with her new epidermal accoutrement.

She kept twisting around so much to see it . . .

"You've got to stop, Clark. You're going to dislocate something."

And every time she caught sight of it, literally or in her mind's eye, she practically beamed with happiness.

I can't say she loved my choice of inkery.

Best before: 19 March 2007

"Is that the . . ."

"The date of my accident, yes."

And she teared right up.

Oh dammit, Clark . . .

"It was meant to be funny."

She struggled to reassert her casual air.

"It is funny. In a crappy sort of way."

I could see the wheels in her dark-haired head begin spinning. Attempting to work out my true intent.

And I decided I must derail her.

"Hey, Clark, do me a favor. Reach into the backpack for me. The zipped pocket."

She rummaged around a bit before finding my stash.

Her expression was perplexed to say the least.

I grinned puckishly.

"Emergency tenner. Right up until you were in that chair, I didn't think for a minute you were going to actually do it."

She appeared, if not vastly entertained, somewhat distantly amused.

But she pocketed the note.

And so, having gotten what I wanted (Clark's steppage out of her metaphorical box) I relented, allowing her to drive us the reminder of the way home without further verbal combat.

---

That night for the first (but certainly not the last) time, I dreamt of that tattoo.

Running my strong, gentle fingers appreciatively over it. Tracing it with my lips. My tongue.

In my dream, Louisa did not seem to mind at all.

Chapter 20: A Conniving Will and A Suspicious Clark

I invited her to move in with me.

Yes, I, a suicidal, depressed quadriplegic invited his perky, spritely, companion caregiver with a self-obsessed, physically superior boyfriend to move in with me.

On the weekends anyway.

It's not as shameful or desperate or delusional as it sounds.

Or complicated.

I was in love with her.

And she, by a set of circumstances not entirely her own doing, found herself exhaustedly playing musical sleeping arrangements with her family members.

And, of course, Running Man.

So I was trying to help.

I might also add it gave me more than the tiniest bit of satisfaction to know directly from her own mouth . . .

. . . which I strove not to become secretly obsessed with . . .

. . . that she did not sleep well while there.

And not for the reason you think.

"Tell me something."

It hurt to think of them together.

Her. My lovely Louisa.

And that idiot. Who didn't appreciate her as he should.

I had been somewhat like him once.

The part where I had run for exercise. Though not quite so obsessively or extensively.

And the part where I just assumed things would always go my way.

Because I would force them to.

But I would like to believe I had treated Alicia with more consideration and importance than Running Man did with Clark.

Then again, I wasn't about to ask her.

But I had asked her.

"Why hasn't Running Man offered you his place?"

Louisa's face was, for once, inscrutable.

"Oh, he has."

She tried to make it sound casual.

Refusing to meet my eyes. Toying with her fingernails.

Glancing out the window at the garden.

Pursing her lips together so as not to open them and spill out all the words she didn't want to say.

But I could guess.

He's actually somewhat of a wanker, Will. In case you hadn't noticed.

I just don't feel ready to give up all the prospects of my life just yet.

We don't really fit, to be honest. I'm starting to see that now for some reason.

All she had to do was pick a phrase.

Say it aloud.

And open up the potential of her world that much more.

Come on, Clark. Pick a sentence or one like it and open your mouth. It might just change your life for the better.

But she didn't. And after a moment or two studying her face, I knew she wouldn't.

Not this time.

Not yet.

So I cleared my throat and moved on.

As if I hadn't been waiting for Clark to explode into real life.

"Like I said. The offer's there."

And then I said no more about it.

---

I smiled when I heard the phone ring.

I knew it was her.

Nothing so sappy as 'the ring had its own special sound when she called'.

But hardly anyone ever rang my flat.

Additionally . . .

"Hello?"

I had finally found my leverage.

"Is this your doing?"

And was quite proud of myself for it.

"Is that you, Clark?"

Innocent me, oh innocent me.

"Did you get my dad a job?"

It was my father who had started it really.

During a rather disturbing television advert for smoke alarms.

"Has, uh, has Miss Clark mentioned seeing me in town recently?"

I tilted my head enough to look at him.

My father, occupying the very couch on which the knackered Clark had been softly snoring only hours before, managed to maintain a casual air.

Somewhat.

"No. What of it?"

Still, I knew.

And waited.

He cleared his throat, running a veined hand over his thinly haired head.

"No reason, really. Small town, you know."

I crossed my arms in front of my chest. Mentally.

"Dad."

He studied the clean lines of his jeans, determined to continue his façade of relaxed conversation.

I let another minute pass before persisting.

"Well then, what did Della think of Clark?"

My father sighed.

"Will . . ."

I shook my head dismissively.

His voice trailed off and we resumed staring at the moving pictures on the television screen.

Della.

Della was one in a long line of reasons my mother's face had grown drawn and pinched over the years.

She was one of the reasons my parents barely tolerated one another's presence.

Why my mother had developed a schoolgirl crush on her riding instructor.

And I and my father barely talked.

Della was my father's redhaired mistress.

Chronologically younger than Mum by a few years and mentally unencumbered by a depressed, suicidal, quadriplegic son.

Or children and husband at all, as so far as I knew.

A free agent, as it were.

My father was drawn to her.

They could be seen on occasion around town, much to my mother's distress.

I had caught them myself once, down by the river.

Back when I was independently mobile and home on holiday.

And questioned my father later.

"Why, Dad? What about Mum?"

He had turned his veiled eyes away from me.

"It's complicated, Will."

No, it isn't.

I was no stranger to the calls of the flesh. Had witnessed my own mates string along a girlfriend and one or two dalliances on the side.

Felt the siren call for the beauties that crossed my path.

But I myself had always held to the principal of always breaking up with one girl before having a go at another.

Simpler that way.

It seemed my father had other philosophies.

"Your mother knows," he had continued quietly, as if that knowledge would make it perfectly acceptable to me. "We have an . . . understanding."

Beyond that, he wouldn't say.

I had gone back to London after the holiday.

Soon after had an up-close and personal life altering crash-in with a motorbike.

And delve into myself, deciding my parents could make each other miserable all they wanted.

Because they were in charge of their own lives.

And I had bigger fish to fry, as the Americans would say.

But now I sensed, how shall I say . . . potential.

"And the castle?" I relegated, appearing to drop the matter. "Holding up alright?"

He smiled lopsidedly and shrugged, as if relieved to be moving the conversation along.

"For a nine hundred year old stone and moss structure? I suppose so."

My father loved that castle. Most likely more than he had ever loved my mother.

And possibly more than he thought he loved Della.

There were hundreds of years of history embedded in its stone walls.

History and gothic romance and bloodshed and nobility.

I do think the diligent upkeep of it and proudly watching the tourists ooh and aww over its grandeur was the only thing that made him truly happy.

As I said, leverage.

I nodded sagely.

"Found a new head of maintenance yet?"

He shook his head.

"No. Still scrambling. Charlie's extended holiday off to South America really put us for a loop."

Some months before, Charlie St. Marsh, Dad's head of maintenance for ten plus years, had suddenly decided he could only live and breathe jungle air for the rest of his life.

And promptly quit.

Dad had muttered something about the rest of Charlie's life being spent holed up inside the anaconda that ate his sorry arse.

And had been looking for a replacement ever since.

Did you get my dad a job?

I grinned at Clark's cleverness.

Never more than a fool to count you out, Louisa.

And talked to thin air, directing my words to speaker.

"I thought you'd be pleased."

Another advert, this one for the British Red Cross, flickered across the screen.

I bidded my time a bit, knowing he was waiting for me to drop the other shoe.

"I am pleased. It's just . . . I don't know. I feel weird."

"You shouldn't. Your dad needed a job. Mine needed a skilled maintenance man."

So I did. Drop the metaphorical shoe.

"Clark's father trained as a maintenance man. Highly skilled from what she tells me. Unemployed at the moment."

My father digested this bit of information without comment.

"My . . . former company sort of pieced apart his awhile back. Was working at furniture factory then 'til he got laid off."

I could have sliced pimento loaf with the razor-sharp silence Clark dropped into the conversation.

"This has nothing to do with what you asked me the other day? About him and the other woman?"

Quick, Clark. Very quick.

"You think I'd blackmail my father into giving yours a job?"

My father and I watched the returning news broadcast in silence for a while.

Then he spoke, tone mild.

"Perhaps I'll ring him up then, shall I?"

His face, those ice-blue eyes, impenetrable.

"Straightaway," I replied coolly. "And he'll be wanting a decent salary, I'd rather think. He's a very loyal employee. And much better trained than Charlie."

How much of this was technically true, I wasn't sure.

I was sure Louisa's father would do all he could to make it true.

"Sorry," Clark relented, stammering over her words now. "I don't know. It's just weird. The timing. It's all a bit convenient."

Oh, I don't think Della would see herself as convenient at all. Women usually don't. Even when they are.

"Then be pleased, Clark. It's good news. Your dad will be great."

And he would.

Because he was a man dedicated to his family.

In a hard and scrabble way that my father would never begin to fathom.

My father.

A decent enough man, one might say.

Flawed and caught and trapped in a web by his conniving, quadriplegic son.

And an unassuming slip of a girl called Louisa Clark.

"And it means . . ." I continued, wondering if I should bite my tongue.

Knowing I couldn't.

"Means what?"

Talking past the sudden lump that had formed in my throat.

"That one day . . ."

When I am gone . . .

". . . you can go off and spread your wings without worrying about how your parents are going to be able to support themselves."

Her sudden silence was deafening. I couldn't even hear her breathe.

"Louisa?"

Her voice was tiny.

"Yes?"

A peep of a thing when she finally responded.

"You're awfully quiet."

Very un-Molahonkey, Clark.

"I'm . . ."

She paused again. Then came back stronger. Shriller.

Falser.

"Sorry. Distracted by something."

Then she rambled on, blaming poor old Granddad and swiftly ended our telephone correspondence.

I sat alone, stuck in my damn chair. Staring at the wall.

I wish I could lie to her.

But I couldn't.

But I had gotten what I wanted nevertheless.

The best for Louisa. And some good for her family as well.

Steven Traynor, Keeper of the Castle and High Lord Therein, nodded briefly without a word.

And we directed our attentions back to the goings-on of the outside world.

"In other world news, President of Honduras, Manuel Zelaya, was overthrown in a coup yesterday after it was revealed he has been attempting to rewrite the Honduran constitution in his favor."

Indeed.

Chapter 21: Quadriplegic Rain

Then she went right ahead and did it.

She moved in with Running Man.

Excuse me.

Patrick.

She, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven . . .

Thank heavens, Clark. You were practically an old maid.

. . . moved out of her parents' warm, full-of-life-and-love flat.

And into his.

Sparse. Sterile. Soul-less.

Or so I could imagine.

And I simply could not believe she had gone ahead and done it.

Committed to him.

Enough to move in anyway.

Cook evening meals with him.

Have conversation.

Lay next to him at night as she slept.

And I absolutely refused to imagine what else went on when they weren't sleeping.

Not her.

Not my Molahonkey sprite.

With him.

The git.

And I eagle-eyed her as she stood there before me.

I was disappointed. Despondent.

More than that.

I was crushed that she was backing further away from all the possibilities that her life could be.

And burrowing down into Running Man's, Patrick's, flat.

Life.

Existence.

"That's . . . what you want to do?"

Her response absolutely floored me.

While at the same time failing to surprise me at all.

"It's about time, really. I mean, I am twenty-seven."

Dear bloody, good, walking Lord, Louisa Clark.

But you're worth, you're capable, you're deserving of so much more than this.

Dear God in Heaven, what a waste.

I looked at her and saw that face.

That beautiful, earnest face. Those big, round eyes. Those wiggly worm brows.

Louisa.

Once so open. Now strained.

As if she were unknowingly fighting herself, the little part of herself that didn't want to be living, dating, or even interested to know Running Man.

Patrick.

And there was only one thing I could possibly manage to say.

"Glad you've got it all sorted out."

And that was that.

I retreated.

Licked my wounds, metaphorically.

And once more began counting the days, the hours, the minutes, until I could go to Dignitas and blast off this stupid, bloody, miserable rock.

The waste. The God-awful waste.

---

I could tell she didn't like it.

Was suspicious. Concerned.

Would probably go running off to tell my mother the first chance she got.

Particularly when I curtly dismissed her from the meeting.

"We'll sit in the courtyard. You can leave us, thanks, Clark."

I could practically hear her clever, questioning brain shouting as she stiffly closed the French doors and removed herself from sight.

Sorry, Clark. But I'm going to secure your damn future whether you want me to or not. And you're not invited.

After much commiserating over her ridiculously bad life choices, I had decided to continue with my plan.

One day, she might see, might finally see, that there was a whole world waiting for her.

And it didn't have to include Patrick.

This town.

Or a small, dry, flat existence.

Michael Lawler, practitioner at law, wills, probate, and power of attorney extraordinaire, was dumbfounded, to say the least.

Though he hid it rather well. Quite a professional, that man.

"To . . . Miss Clark?"

"Louisa, if you please."

"And that would be . . .the entirety of it . . ."

"Yes. In two separate accounts. The larger of which . . ."

Professional man, him. He never blinked an eye.

"And you're quite certain?"

"Yes."

"Alright then, sir. Very good."

"I would also like to draw up a letter of intent. Witnessed by you. Absolving my parents and Miss Clark of any responsibility for my actions. Nathan as well."

When he left an hour later, I felt a grim sense of accomplishment.

Clark would be set well. What she would do with those means would be her decision.

Which I still had some weeks left to sway.

I'm not giving up on you, Clark. Not yet. I'm not letting you go.

I just had to work out how.

---

Not that she was easy to live around, mind you.

Nor I her, I am sure.

The gulf between us sat like a big deadhead in my little annex.

Even Nathan noticed it.

He kept his mouth shut.

But his head, his eyes swiveled back and forth between us as though he were watching a tennis match.

"You two had a row, Mr. T.?" he asked me finally during Louisa's lunchbreak.

I wasn't ready to talk about it yet.

Her.

And Running Man.

Patrick.

I stared out the window, keeping my face blank.

"You'd better ask her."

---

"Please, Will, you can't just give up on life because of some girl."

I rolled my eyes, feeling even more indignant and frustrated than I had in weeks.

"Don't be daft, Mother. Louisa was never going to convince me to live."

She stared at me, struggling to maintain her English composure.

"Louisa?"

Oh bloody, walking hell.

I sighed.

"Miss Clark, Mother."

She gulped air, twisting her gold crucifix 'til I thought her fingers would pop off.

"Oh, Will, you can't . . . she isn't . . ."

I stopped her there.

"This isn't about her, Mother. This is about me. My . . . life. It isn't a life. I can't go on like this."

She shook her head.

"No, Will, please . . . I can't . . . there must be- "

I interrupted again, weary, so very weary of this battle.

"No, Mother, there isn't."

She stood, trembling on the spot. Face quivering.

Then she cracked.

"You cannot ask me to stand by and watch you kill yourself, William!" she screeched suddenly. "You have no right to ask this of me!"

As she became more agitated, I strangely grew calmer.

"You can't ask me to live a life of constant pain and fear, Mother. Not if you really love me."

She stood there, mouth opening and closing like a fish flailing out of water.

My father, moved forward, tried to put his hands on her shoulders.

"Camilla, please, he's asking for our sup- "

She jerked away from him as if he were physically hurting her with his touch.

"No, don't you talk to me! Don't you side with him against me! He's . . . he's . . . he's my son!"

My father's face remained impassive. A muscle worked near his jaw.

And still he spoke softly.

"He's my son too, Camilla. That's why I have to support him. I . . . I love him too much to force him to live on like this if he can't bear it."

It was one of the few times I had ever heard my father used the word 'love'.

I also sensed they had had this conversation before.

And that my mother had begged before.

And my father had taken everything in him.

And put me first.

My mother looked back and forth between the two of us for a moment.

And then with a whisper of a whimper, she drained from the room without another word.

My father and I remained.

Together. But separate.

I waited for him to speak.

Then realized that he couldn't.

"Thank you, Dad," I murmured.

My father stared out the window for a few moments.

Then without looking at me, he nodded.

And left the room.

Head down.

Eyes trained on the parquet floor.

So I might not see the moisture daring to leak out of his eyes.

---

Then next morning, Louisa arrived.

I thought her presence would help.

Then I remembered Runni – Patrick – and knew that it wouldn't.

'November Rain', eh? The song should have been called 'Quadriplegic Rain'. Guess that just doesn't have the same ring to it.

Chapter 22: The Missing Puzzle Piece to Louisa Clark is Uncovered in a Hedge Maze

I should have perhaps left her alone in there, descaling the bath taps.

It would have cost her less pain in the short term.

But the removal of that poison, that jagged thorn, I think, made a grand amount of difference in the long run for Louisa Clark.

And so even if I had it to do over and witness my dear Molahonkey Clark suffer so releasing that burden, I believe I would still have drug her out of that house that day.

---

"What are you doing?"

Not that the view was bad, mind you.

Louisa Clark kneeling on my lavatory floor, bottom slightly stuck out as she reached out for the already clean bath taps.

"Descaling your taps."

Oh no, say it isn't so, Clark! Not . . . not . . . slight lime buildup!

Bloody hell.

All that rainy Friday she had skirted to and fro, sweeping this and mopping that, cleaning and cleaning and cleaning 'til my mother would have been hard-pressed to find an issue.

Though I'm sure she still would have managed.

And because Clark and I were still at odds and I hadn't contrived a way out of it yet due to still being somewhat pissed myself, I had let Louisa get on with it while I busied myself.

The penguin documentary.

Internet perusal.

And of course, Nathan's daily morning and afternoon medical attendance.

But now that the rain had finally stopped, I had had enough.

Of my own restlessness.

Clark's incessant cleaning.

And of the rank fish and chip odor now pervading my little dwelling.

"Say that again."

She snarked regarding my apparent lack of hearing ability.

Which I stalwartly ignored.

And drug her out onto the castle grounds once more.

---

And that was how we came to be where we were.

Before the . . .

". . . hedge maze. I haven't done it for ages."

And Clark more fidgety and uncomfortable than I'd ever seen her before.

"Oh. Uh, no, thanks."

Eyeing the tall, meticulously trimmed topiary like grim death.

"C'mon, Clark. It'll be a challenge for you."

I really had no idea.

"I'd really rather not."

I truly did not. It was one of the very few things she hid so well.

"Ah. Playing it safe again."

I chided her. Goaded her. Pushed her.

"No problem. We'll just take our boring little walk and go back to the boring little annex."

Dear God in Heaven, part of me wishes we had done just that.

But I didn't know.

Couldn't have known.

And as I have said, though it hurt her badly at the time, I do think it was for the best in the end.

"Just remember which turn you take, then reverse it to come out. It's not as hard as it looks. Really."

I could be such a bossy git of a wanker when I chose to be.

And so she went, by my leave. Lovely face pale, big round eyes full of unspoken dread.

And I watched her go, confident that it was a good idea.

The pushing of Clark.

She was in there nearly no time at all when something went wrong.

And she started crying.

Calling my name and crying.

"Will?! Will?!"

Like a little lost girl.

The old Will Traynor would have dashed into the hedge maze straightaway to easily find her just a turn or two from the entrance.

But the old Will was gone with the motorbike.

The new decrepit, quadriplegic, crip Will furrowed his brow in concern.

Bloody hell, Clark. What's going on?

Pushed the joystick of his cripmobile with one tremulous thumb.

And, praying not to get stuck in a mudpuddle or run out of battery charge, slowly, slowly rolled his cripmobile at top snail speed into the hedge.

Looking, looking, looking for Louisa.

Praying formlessly that for once now would not be the time when that long awaited autonomic dysreflexia or blood clot or whatever the hell else was biding its wicked time inside him would take him down.

And leave her alone.

Lost in the hedge maze.

Looking, looking, looking.

"Louisa? Louisa, where are you . . ."

And there, finally. There she was. Wedged as far into a corner of the hedge as far as she could possibly get.

Bent double.

Arms wrapped around her middle.

Face crumpled, breath gasping.

Sobbing. Whimpering.

Dear God in Heaven, Louisa . . .

I still had no clue. Could not begin to fathom.

"I'm sorry . . ."

Apologizing, she was hysterically apologizing.

". . . sorry . . ."

Babbling.

". . . I can't do it . . ."

Completely unhinged.

And I, the idiotic git, was completely baffled.

She hid it so well.

"Are you . . . claustrophobic?"

The old Will would have knelt, scooped her up easily in his strong, capable arms.

Her head cradled on his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his spinal cord injury free neck.

The new infirm, motorbike-conquered Will wheeled his wretched chair as close as possible to her.

Unable to do more than lift one arm mere centimeters, a feat required all his ailing, meager, pitiful determination.

And gesture.

Desperate to get her out from under the hedge.

Strength depleted. Mobility gone.

"It's okay . . . "

Nothing left but his voice. His words.

". . . just breathe . . ."

Focusing on sounding comforting.

". . . come here . . ."

Sounding calm.

". . . just breathe . . ."

Sounding like someone who could keep her safe.

". . . slowly . . ."

The power, the force, of verbal coercion was strong with this one.

And it worked.

Eventually.

Just barely.

Clark came to him. The useless, hopeless crip in the chair.

Shuffling and wiping her eyes.

And still bloody apologizing.

". . . sorry . . . don't know what happened . . ."

As if she'd done something wrong.

As if she'd failed him.

"I just want to go now."

The bloody useless man who couldn't even properly grasp her delicate, trembling, little hand.

The old Will, strong and reassuring, would have gallantly carried her out.

Set her down safely a good distance away.

And held her until she calmed.

Rocking her a bit, perhaps. Instinctually.

The new Will, the man who couldn't even wipe his own pressure-sored arse, grasped her clammy fingers between his thumb and forefinger, using all his weakening strength to not let go.

And slowly, ever so slowly, led her out as she walked, wobbly-kneed, next to him.

And he managed to calm her tears and hitching gasps just a little.

Once again using the only weapon remaining to him in his Arsenal Against Hysterical Females and Other Humans.

His voice.

Smooth. Comforting.

Rambling quietly on about how he struggled to successfully circumvent the maze as a child.

Walking it over and over and over.

Committing every turn to memory.

Then backward.

Then over again.

But not relaying the story as a brag.

For once not snarking. Not stubbornly focusing on his own pain, his own loss.

But the pain of another.

The comfort of another.

Louisa Clark.

Who should have been heroically carried, rescued, out of the maze by her knight in shining armor.

Not her debilitated quad in mud-splattered wheelchair.

---

Oh no. Oh Louisa, no.

She had been young. She had been reckless. She had been naïve.

Flirting with those university boys.

Those idiot boys who fancied themselves big, strapping men.

Drinking alcohol. Smoking pot.

Loosening her sensibilities until she was hopelessly at their mercy.

Who had been the last one of her friends to leave her alone with those beasts? And what had been that one's thinking?

Oh, she'll be fine. She's a big girl. And they're just a bunch of boys.

And did it ever keep her awake at night, wondering what could have transpired that changed her old friend so dramatically and completely that she never once again spoke with any of them?

Or did the bitch sleep the unencumbered sleep of the cold-hearted?

The maze.

They had taken Louisa into the maze.

Toyed with her. Mocked her.

Gotten her so turned around she couldn't escape, couldn't argue, couldn't fight.

And they, the nameless, faceless, slobbering, grunting, brutish beasts of boys, had kissed her.

Fondled her.

Passed her among them.

And raped her.

My beautiful, gentle-spirited Louisa Clark.

Defiled.

And abandoned.

Naked and shivering in the hedge maze.

I would have set it aflame and burned it right to the ground without delay in an unholy white hot fire of retribution just to hear their tortured screams.

But they were long gone. Seven years long gone.

And Louisa Clark, fractured and psychologically mangled, remained.

To pick up the pieces of herself.

And soldier on.

The only bare modicum of consolation I had was that she had blacked out during the time of the acts themselves.

And bore no conscious memory of them.

But, by her words, it had built up in her mind.

The sights. The smells. The sounds. The tastes of them. The unwelcome contact.

It had grown in her mind and haunted her dreams.

It really and truly was a bloody, walking miracle she hadn't stabbed the unsuspecting Patrick to death in his sleep.

For, aside from her protective, yet slightly judgmental sister, she had told no one at all.

And she didn't want to tell me at first.

As if I would judge her.

Blame her.

Tell her she deserved it for making the mistakes she did, being young and naïve and stupid.

I had to draw it out of her.

By telling her something in return.

A quid pro quo, as Hannibal Lector would say.

By revealing my soul.

Something I had kept hidden in my core.

Something I hadn't shared with anyone.

"I get really, really scared of how this is going to go."

And I told her.

My fears. My terrors.

Day in and day out.

Not that I would die.

But that I would live.

That disease and illness would take me down, little by little.

Or all at once in a mad rush.

And I would be left alive.

But just barely.

And more trapped than ever before.

"And you know what? Nobody wants to hear that stuff."

I told her all the things I kept locked inside.

All the things that threatened to drive me crazy.

That nobody wanted to hear.

All the things I would never experience again.

All the pains of loyalty and tugs-of-war webbing entrapping our family together amidst everything else.

All the things I could no longer walk away from.

Travel away from.

Escape.

"Ultimately, they want to look on the bright side," I concluded. "They need me to look on the bright side."

"They need to believe there is a bright side."

That was one of the many sources of my anger and resentment and bitterness.

They needed me to be strong for them.

They needed me to take care of them.

Their feelings. Their needs.

When I couldn't even take care of myself.

"You, Clark," I told her, in the most honest moment of my entire life thus far, "are the only person I have felt able to talk to since I ended up in this bloody thing."

The relief of her.

Of someone to listen. To maybe not understand. But listen.

To not ask me to lock it inside and smile for them.

For two years my fear, my terror, my anger, my rage, had swelled inside me. Threatening to split me at the seams. Rip me apart.

Because nobody, as much as they loved me, wanted to hear the real stuff.

But Louisa. She listened. She let me let it all out.

So I could breathe again. Just a little.

She didn't, couldn't, take any of it away.

Not even a little bit.

But she could let me let it out of me.

And that meant all the world.

And then when I had bared my soul to my Molahonkey Clark, she told me.

Everything.

She held my limp, useless hand. The only one that could barely feel anything at all.

And told me.

About what they had done to her.

And I couldn't hold her.

I couldn't comfort her.

I couldn't soothe her.

I could tilt my head to one side and lay it gently atop hers when she lay her own on my useless, weak shoulder.

And I could talk.

I could do that.

So I did.

"You don't need me to tell you it wasn't your fault."

Except she did. She really did.

Because she was still blaming herself.

Instead of them.

The bastards who had rent apart her life of fearlessness and potential.

And I had to make her see.

"No. They were responsible."

The truth.

"Louisa. It wasn't your fault."

Had she made mistakes? Had she been stupid?

Absolutely.

But they had chosen their actions, their bestial crimes.

And she had paid the price for their monstrosity.

On that night and ever since then.

"But you don't have to let that night be the thing that defines you. You, Clark, have the choice not to let that happen."

She cried the poison out of herself then. Breathed it out, cleansed the wound.

And, I believe, became lighter, more free, for it.

It took some time that evening.

The sky grew dark.

The air cooled.

Her cellphone collected concerned text messages and voicemails.

And my tubes needed changing.

But I let it all go.

And gave Louisa the time she needed to begin the healing of herself.

And eventually . . .

"We'd better get back. Before they call out a search party."

. . . we left the hedge maze for good.

Chapter 23: A Joyous Occasion

It seemed we had turned a corner and somewhat resolved the differences between us.

We understood each other better, Louisa and I. Knew and accepted the darkness within us no one else did.

I loved her more for it, though still resolving to keep such impossibilities as love close to the vest.

And things went back to normal.

Well, maybe not normal.

She was sitting on my lap after all.

Smiling and giggling and mouthing off a little.

"Come on! Let's give these tossers something to talk about!"

Her weight was light on me as much as I could feel, breath slightly sweetened from the Pimm's she'd only recently been horrified to discover actually were alcoholic.

"How am I going to drive you home?!"

To which I had most conspiratorially replied.

"Some caregiver you are, Clark. What's it worth for me not to tell my mother?"

And then, when she popped herself up on my wheelchaired lap, I found myself, against my own good common sense, flirting with her.

"Move closer. You smell fantastic."

The magnitude of emotions for her I was fighting was lost on Louisa.

Probably because she had no idea just how beautiful and sexy and alluring she really was.

And she apparently had other concerns on her mind as well.

"So do you. Although if you don't stop turning in left-hand circles, I may throw up."

A marginal concern.

But she did, she really did smell amazing.

Her perfume was light and airy and nothing in comparison to the natural, clean scent of her underlying it.

And it was all I could do to remain slightly aloof and detached.

Even as I continued to flirt. Rather boldly, I admit.

"You know, you never would have let those breasts so near to me if I wasn't in a wheelchair."

Well, perhaps not as aloof and detached as I'd like to have believed.

But they were there, well and modestly displayed just below both our chins.

Perky and round and perfect.

Just like her.

And I was slightly drunk myself.

Not drunk enough to motorboat them, mind you.

But loose enough to openly enjoy the shock and unspoken delight coloring her face at that moment.

Even as she managed to hold her own.

"Yeah, well, you never woulda been lookin' at these breasts if you hadn't been in a wheelchair!"

That's what I loved most about Clark at that moment. Her cheerful honesty.

Most people tried not to see the chair, for fear of insult or embarrassment.

Others pitied the chair and the man stuck in it.

Clark, she simply acknowledged the chair.

And then didn't care about it at all.

Oh my dear Louisa, I do love you so.

But I wouldn't say that.

No good for either of us could come from me saying that aloud.

So I stuck with the topic at hand, a slightly adoring smile painting the face that looked upon my Clark.

"What? Of course I would."

She giddily snarked at me, putting me firmly in my place once again. And it made her even more beautiful to me, not less.

"Nope. You would have been too busy looking at the leggy blondes!"

Oooh, another tangent!

"The ones who can smell an expense account at forty paces!"

Go on, Clark! Swing for the fence!

"And anyway, I would've been over there serving the drinks! One of the invisibles."

Huzzah! Well done! And, ouch.

But, truth be told, she was absolutely right.

And she knew it.

"Am I right?"

And I knew it.

"Well, yes . . ."

I never would have noticed her.

". . . but in my defense . . ."

Though one of her was worth any and all of those others put together.

". . . I was an arse."

That face, oh that smiling, glowing, beautiful face. Full of life and laughter. She was truly ethereal. Perfect and ethereal.

"Yep!"

And a complete smartass.

And I loved her so.

My Molahonkey girl.

I had chosen to come to the wedding today.

I had decided I would make it work.

Be charming. Be genial. Be mentally and socially the man I used to be.

Or better.

Just so I could look upon Alicia, now marrying another man when I had formerly considered it might one day be me.

And smile.

Feel happy for her.

Let go of the anger and resentment and bitterness regarding our breakup.

And be absolved. Let her be absolved.

Of all that had transpired between us.

And so I had gone to the wedding, determined to do the right thing for Alicia and for myself.

Because it was right.

But Louisa, she made it all worthwhile.

Threatening, as we approached the church 'ere the beginning of the ceremony, to abandon me amongst all my old ex-girlfriends . . .

More a punishment for them than me, wouldn't you say, Clark? I can easily 'Left Foot' all day.

. . . were I to revisit my Christy Brown impression.

She charmed Freddy Foster with a mere glance, making his ears turn pink and his English tongue blather something unintelligible before he wandered off during the garden party.

Managed not to crow with delight . . .

"You didn't buy her a mirror!"

. . . at my mischief against Alicia. Until after she'd left.

"Yeah, I know."

She had been sweetly appreciative . . .

"I'm trying to encourage Louisa to do something else, to widen her horizons a bit."

. . . to be included in the conversation . . .

"What did you have in mind?"

. . . between me and Mary Rawlinson . . .

"She doesn't know. Louisa is one of the smartest people I know, but I can't make her see her own possibilities."

. . . nearly falling out of her chair in astonishment . . .

"Don't patronize her, dear. She's quite capable of answering for herself."

. . . as Mary easily and rightfully put me directly in my place . . .

"I rather think that you of all people should know that."

. . . as she always did when I needed it.

And now that Louisa and I were out on the dance floor, busy appalling most of the other partygoers (save for the enthusiastically snarky Mary), I found myself once more captivated by the Molahonkey girl on my lap.

"Do you know something, Clark?" I murmured even lower, throwing caution to the wind. "You are pretty much the only thing that makes me want to get up in the morning."

And it was true.

I was going to Dignitas, there was no disputing that.

It would happen. Everything was in order, my date set.

But in the meantime, as long as Louisa Clark was there, or would be there, or had been there, I felt like I could manage anything.

She was my reason for living.

For as long as I had left.

Her face glowed when I came as close as I could to saying I love you.

And it was all I could do not to press my hungering lips to hers right then and there.

I don't think she had any idea how very much she affected me as she leaned in closer, nearly making me forget I wasn't going to cross a line and kiss her.

"Then let's go somewhere," she surreshed beseechingly.

God, I loved her.

"Anywhere in the world."

I loved her and I could never tell her.

"Just you and me."

And yet she was here, perched right in my quadriplegic lap.

"What do you say?"

Those big, round, beautiful eyes.

"Say yes, Will."

And I just couldn't speak.

"Go on."

Because sudden tears threatened to overwhelm me as I gazed at her.

So close to me, yet so far. All I wanted and could not have.

You could argue it was the alcohol, the ambiance, the sentimentality.

But it wasn't.

No.

It was her.

Louisa.

And all that she was to me. And all I desperately wished I could be for her.

My chest swelled with emotion and I just managed to transfer everything suddenly surging inside my useless waste of a body into a radiant smile for her.

And reply, somewhat huskily.

"Okay."

---

Before she swept me off to wherever it was she could contrive to take us this time, we both had to admit that she was just the slightly bit too inebriated to drive us home.

She attempted to apologize but I wouldn't hear of it.

"That's what you do at weddings, Clark. You get blasted drunk. The very reason there's a hotel nearby. Ring them up and get us a couple of rooms so we can get on with this blessed affair."

She nearly fainted at the cost but it was on my dime, so to speak.

And I just wanted to have fun.

Which was how, some undiscernible amount of time later, I wheeled her out of that tent.

". . . all the way to the hotel!" I proclaimed brazenly. "This is going to go very wrong, you know that?!"

Still on my lap.

"No, this is going to be brilliant!"

Screeching and whooping all the way.

"Oooh! I don't think you're driving in a straight line!"

Yeah, well, how would you know, Clark? You can't even see in a straight line! Ha!

---

I might have been quite happily drunker than I originally had thought.

When she, my tiny little sprite, attempted to lug me out of my chair and into the bed, we ended up in an unceremonious heap on the floor.

Twice.

And instead of her becoming flustered and embarrassed at the shame she was causing me and me becoming irate and incensed at the shame she was causing me, we both laughed ourselves silly.

Because aside from the fact those lovely, lush, perfect breasts kept ending up on my face . . .

Hello, ladies!

. . . that godawful Austin Powers kept going on and on in my inebriated brain.

Oh no, I fell over! Oh, I fell over again!

And I knew further that she was more than a little drunk because when I insisted she extravagantly overtip the porter who finally did manage to bed me properly . . .

"Spot him a fifty-pound note, Clark! Strong bloke, that one!"

. . . she agreed without the slightest hesitation.

"Here you go, my good sir! And thank you kindly for not starin' at these magnificent breasts!"

She fussed over me for a good while before I waved her off.

"Go to bed yourself, Clark. I'm fine! Just don't expect me to bang on the wall to wake you up in the morning! Disabled, you know!"

She laughed.

"Anything as an excuse, you!"

Fussed a little more.

Before taking her leave.

"Goodnight, Will. Thank you for today! It was marvelous!"

And tottered on off.

I lay there in the dark, watching the shadows dance on the wall.

I had thought about asking her to stay with me.

Decided I shouldn't get any closer to the edge of admitting my love for her than I already was.

And watched her go, refusing to be wistful.

My tubes needed changing.

I would undoubtedly be in a fair amount of pain and discomfort tomorrow.

Mother and Nathan would most likely give us hell for traipsing off overnight without permission.

Runnin – Patrick too.

But right then, I was just happy.

Happy to have had Clark on my lap.

And in my life.

As my mind began to wonder if she was sleeping in that soft blue dress, her delicates, or in the nude . . .

Now let's see, where's that bumblebee tattoo again, my dear . . .

. . . I drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

Chapter 24: The Truant Teenagers Get Grounded

We were a pitifully, disheveled pair, the two of us.

Hungover and wrinkled.

My mother greeted us in the drive, her face pinched with worry and concern.

"Why didn't you return any of my calls? I was worried sick!"

A pause.

"Are you alright?"

Well, that's a rather subjective inquiry, don't you think?

I was in a fair amount of pain and my nerves were already worn thin from hiding my discomfort from Louisa throughout the morning preparations, scant breakfast, and long drive home.

But I was determined not to spoil the fun we'd had with such nitpicky things as unchanged tubes.

Migraines.

Fevers and chills.

No doubt wildly fluctuating blood pressure.

And infections.

And so I kept my voice light and nonchalant.

"I think I'm old enough to spend a night in a hotel without permission, Mother, okay?"

I grinned carelessly, that old Will 'don't ask what I've been up to' grin from my more able, youthful days.

Saw her eyebrows raise, her face lighten in surprise.

And heard the cautious, dare-I-dream relief in her voice.

"Okay."

As she caught a snippet of the boy who used to test her patience so.

And I made me happy and nostalgic and bittersweet for her all at once.

Love you too, Mum. Ta.

Must have been an afterwhiff of the Pimm's.

Then I thought she might go after Louisa, what with her being my caretaker and all, but she just sort of breathed some relief at her and went about her way.

---

Nathan was a bit less easy to placate.

After Louisa took her leave upon my request to go home . . .

"I can't be walking around the castle with someone who has so clearly just done the walk of shame."

. . . and completely flapping the unflappable Nathan in shock . . .

"Walk of shame?"

. . . causing Louisa to color so prettily and laugh like an angel . . .

"Not that walk of shame."

. . . we got down to business.

Nathan was in a right state.

"This is not good, mate. You're sweating."

Because he was a good medical attendant.

"I'm fine, don't fuss."

Who knew how quickly things could go downhill.

"Look at me. How's your eyesight?"

I knew as well.

"I'm sure pretty sure you're Nathan, am I right?"

Though I was determined to keep my jolly mood.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure you've been on the drink, eh? Am I right?"

No matter how right he was.

"I'll be fine."

And henceforth, turned to another source of joy for us determined sarcastics.

Come on, a little Monty Python to convince you, then?

"Jeez, Will!"

Bring out your dead!

"We had a nice time."

Clang!

He fussed over me . . .

Here's one!

. . . changed my tubes . . .

I'm not dead!

. . . crushing up pills into water for me to drink.

That's what he always says. He's very ill.

Checking the old blood-pressure . . .

I'm getting better!

. . . to confirm a rough attack of autonomic dysreflexia.

No, you're not, you'll be stone dead in a minute.

I chatted with him . . .

I don't want to go on the cart!

. . . trying to reassure him . . .

I think I'll go for a walk!

. . . as he eagle-eyed me . . .

You're not fooling anyone, you know.

. . . that all would soon be fine.

I feel happy! Happy!

Once all my medicals were seen to, he wiped me down and suited me up in some fresh, soft bedclothes to rest in for the remainder of day.

As I continued valiantly ignoring the potential seriousness of my situation.

And instead focused on relaying some of the finer points of our wedding jaunt.

Nathan was more than a bit peeved at Louisa and I had no doubt he would tear a strip off her later out of my earshot.

But I tried to reassure him nevertheless.

"Really, it wasn't her fault."

He grunted noncommittedly.

"Nice tattoo, by the way."

And tried to make his point clear, poorly disguised as a joke.

"Just make sure you don't graduate to an 'End by', yeah?"

Eh, don't get me all lying now. Mate.

---

Louisa, however, didn't fair quite as well in the interim.

She came back pale and drawn.

Unusually taciturn.

Not at all the bright, vivacious wedding guest Louisa.

The one who had sat on my lap and discussed her breasts. And taken my breath away.

It took me a while to nudge it out of her.

"Yes, well, I've discovered it's not the most sensible thing to stay out all night when you've just moved in with your boyfriend."

Ouch.

Patrick jealous of the ailing quadriplegic again, eh?

But I didn't really blame him.

As alluring and attractive as Louisa was, any man would be in his right mind to want to keep her with him.

Instead of focusing on hamster wheeling his life away.

---

It was a quiet afternoon in the annex.

Mostly.

"Good Lord, Clark! Is there anything left in the hotel?"

Truthfully, she must have pillaged and plundered the entire stock of toiletries for both rooms.

Shampoos, conditioners, sewing kits, shower caps.

It was quite possible she had absconded with the whole of the maid's cart as well.

After tucking away all of her newly acquired booty into my loo, we (along with Nathan) watched a movie.

'Spirited Away'. By Miyazaki. Undoubtedly my favorite Japanese anime.

As far removed from reality as humanly possible.

And of course, subtitled.

Louisa sat right next to me, attending to my every essential. Almost before I thought to need it.

Had I been an able-bodied, fully-functional man with the odd desire to simply shut myself away from the world for the afternoon, I could have thought of no better way to spend my day.

Well, maybe a few.

Involving her.

And me.

And most definitely not Nathan.

Chapter 25: Clark's Warning Label

I think my father felt oddly proud of me when Clark moved in a few days later.

A helpless C-6 quadriplegic with only weeks to go on his life sentence steals away a voluptuous young beauty away from her four-percent-body-fat running boyfriend.

That's my boy then, eh? Ruddy tosser never stood a chance, huzzah!

But it wasn't like that.

Okay, it mostly wasn't like that.

Alright, maybe just a little.

But I wasn't trying to steal her away from him, I truly was not.

I simply enjoyed her company. Listened to her. Laughed with her.

Made her important.

Not some bloody stupid fitness obsession to the detriment of all else.

So she couldn't go home because her sister's lad wailed in the night until they all shuffled beds like 'Shaun of the Dead' zombies.

And she couldn't go to Running Man's, (yes, I had relapsed) because he was jealous of me.

When all this time if he had been treating her like he should have, she wouldn't have responded to my attentions so readily.

And I said to her bloody hell, Clark, for the last time, I'm safe in taxis. Just take the bloody room when you need it.

And she finally listened.

And, only slightly embarrassed, bid goodnight to me that first night.

In her Minnie Mouse tshirt and modest Chinese lounge pants.

And I had never seen anything so adorable and sexy in all my days.

"Good night, Clark. Sleep well."

And that big, lovely, gentle smile of hers.

"Good night, Will. And thank you."

That would surely accompany me into sleep.

"Think nothing of it. I can't very well have you snoring through any more movies, can I?"

---

My father, of course, accidently greeted her in his pajamas and dressing gown Monday morning, I later found out.

Nearly gave her heart palpitations from embarrassment.

My father, on the other hand, was too old and too self-assured to be bothered by little things such as embarrassment.

I think he just appreciated that she made me happy.

And most likely it didn't hurt that she was so lovely and yet so unaware.

My mother didn't say anything at all regarding the matter.

Her eyes, however, spoke volumes.

Leech. Parasite. Gold-digger. Opportunist.

Her worries.

But then again, what did it matter if it kept her talking head potato of a son happy and breathing?

I don't think Nathan noticed or cared.

"Got you some new nightcream in the cabinet there, Mr. T.?"

Other than to jest me for it.

And so Clark stayed while everyone else came and went.

She and I stayed on.

And I loved it, I truly did.

And loved her.

---

It wasn't all sunshine and roses however.

It was Clark, after all.

And Clark was Clark.

"AHHHHHH!"

And followed by a frighteningly loud crash.

Nathan jumped to his feet, having just completed my morning routine.

And raced toward the sound of Louisa's scream.

My laboring heart pounding as I rolled on behind.

To find them in the tiny kitchen.

Nathan kneeling over Louisa.

Prone on the floor.

My heart veritably exploded in my paralyzed chest at the sight . . .

Oh bloody hell, we're going to have matching wheelchairs!

. . . of my Molahonkey sprite laying askew.

". . . move," Nate the Great was saying calmly. "you might have a head or neck injury."

Oh bloody hell, we are going to have matching wheelchairs!

". . . fine," Clark was replying. "I didn't hit my head . . ."

An upturned chair lay at her feet.

"I was dusting on top of the cupboards . . ."

I blinked her in pure aggravation.

"Bloody hell, Clark! You do know nobody can see up there-"

She started to wave a hand at me, then flinched, hissing in pain.

"Okay, then," Nathan interrupted, rising. "We need to go to the hospital and x-ray that arm."

He looked at me, as if feeling guilty caught caring for another's medical wellbeing.

"Oh, uh, Mr. T, let's get you ready to g- "

I interrupted him.

"No, Nathan. You go ahead. I'll be fine."

Louisa started to fuss . . .

"Oh, it's nothing, I'm f- . . ."

. . . until I interceded.

"Clark, I really must insist you go with Nathan. I'll only slow you down."

I saw the fear in her eyes. And knew she was thinking.

And just kept going.

"I've got the injury dance card full and there simply isn't room for you on it."

Louisa squished up her lovely little face in worry . . .

"Look, I promise not to off myself while you're gone."

. . . and exasperation.

"You'd better go or I'll call your mother."

Opened her mouth.

"I'll call my mother."

Then closed it over all her unspoken words.

And went.

---

They returned a scant few hours later.

Louisa pale but composed.

"Just a light wrist sprain, Mr. T," Nathan announced mildly.

Oh thank bloody hell.

One thin wrist wrapped in athletic tape.

A yellow strip on the other.

Reading, "Fall Risk".

I swallowed my anxiety for my Molahonkey girl.

And in the driest tone I could muster, spoke thusly.

"Brilliant, Clark! They've finally made a proper warning label for you!"

She glared at me prettily before allowing Nathan to guide her away.

As I continued.

"Perhaps we should revisit the tattoo shop, what do you say?"

She didn't dignify me with an answer.

I watched her go, drawing the first easy, full breath I had since her scream.

---

Nothing could slow down my Clark, though.

In only a day or two, she had pulled off the athletic tape, saying it made her itch.

While I insisted she leave the yellow band around her wrist indefinably 'as a gentle reminder".

But all that staying and waiting, as Dr. Seuss would say, was no longer Clark's cup of tea.

"I've got the best trip for us to go on!"

She looked so proud of herself.

And she should be.

Which she had every right to be.

It was a fantastic trip.

Designed especially for a former thrill seeker, current quadriplegic.

There was white water rafting. Bungee jumping. Swimming with dolphins.

And so many other activities and adventures, the old Will would have, and already had, enjoyed.

Unfortunate the new Will didn't care about those things.

But she had gone to so much trouble.

And promised she would try them herself.

And she asked.

With that beautiful voice. And big, round eyes.

So I said yes.

Just to see her smile.

Chapter 26: Hospital To Beach

Me always having to be right, of course, I went and got an infection.

And had to go to hospital.

Just to prove I was always going to be the more frail and sickly.

There, that'll show them.

Bollocks.

It was a bad one.

Third in two years.

Pneumonia.

In the middle of summer. An English summer, but summer nevertheless.

A little bacteria, a little cough.

And hurrah, purple lips and an elephant on my chest.

All leading to an ambulance, IV antibiotics, and an oxygen mask.

My upper left lung was taking a beating.

When my respiratory therapist wasn't helping me cough and insisting on me coughing on my own, I was getting the fluid pummeled out of me by a chest-pummeling machine.

Practicing breathing whilst sitting in my chair.

And sleeping.

A lot of sleeping.

Not dying is exhausting.

My mother hovered nearby nearly my entire stay, relegating my father to the waiting room.

And eventually out of the entire facility.

And Nathan.

And Clark.

Clark who peeked her head around the room every so often, chirping . . .

"Hey, how you feeling?"

"I've been better."

. . . and attempting to tease.

"Oh, I don't know. You'd do anything to get attention, Will Traynor . . ."

That Clark.

That beautiful, perky, sweet Clark.

So earnest and hopeful.

And I wanted to enjoy her.

I wanted to tease back, have a bit of fun with her, I really did.

But . . .

"Sorry, Clark, I don't think I can do witty today."

She flinched. Her face blanching, eyebrows going all haywire.

And I knew I was deathly ill.

Because I could not find the strength to care.

But Louisa had grown nothing if not resilient.

She chattered on about this and that.

Retrieving her CDs.

Moving out of Running Man's flat.

I thought she might be a bit broken up about breaking off from a bloke after so many years.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, sure. It's really not so bad."

Then again, it was Running Man. Not much of a loss, if you asked me.

"Besides, I've got other things to think about anyway."

Oh Louisa, you lovely Molahonkey girl, I know you want to hope but . . .

"Here's the thing, Clark. I'm not sure I'm going to be bungee jumping anytime soon."

All her work, all her effort.

And she never even flinched.

Just smiled that beautiful smile of hers.

"It's okay, Will. We'll go some other time."

It broke my laboring heart.

Her inexhaustible optimism.

"I'm sorry. I knew you were really looking forward to it."

Making me want to live.

She sighed, brushing a hand across my damp forehead.

"Shhh. Really. It's not important. Just get well."

I love you, Louisa. I really do.

But you don't understand.

I'm not going to get well.

This is my life.

And I can't live it much longer.

And I won't let you either.

---

They healed me right up.

As much as they could.

The wanking doctors.

Took a while. Some good old effort.

Lots of coughing.

And truckloads of antibiotics.

And when I was well and they deemed I would live a bit longer, they sent me home.

The annex was somehow even more depressing and suffocating than before.

Even with Clark there.

I slept mostly.

Stared blankly at films on the screen.

Listened to various musical selections.

Rap. Hip-hop. Heavy metal.

Anything hard and angry and bitter.

Trying to get it out of me without pouring it on anybody else.

No classical. Nothing to make me feel too much, no, thank you.

I chatted when required.

With my father. My mother. Nathan.

Mostly listening.

Getting them to talk.

About their interests. Their jobs. Their lives.

Direct them away from me.

And, of course, there was always Clark.

Prattling on about her new plans for us.

Gone were the thrill-seeking escapades.

The wild, heart pounding, life-inspiring adventures.

Now replaced by the tranquil seas. Pristine beaches.

And the relaxing pampering of a lovely island getaway.

And I just didn't want to go.

They would look, they would whisper.

At the crip in the chair.

Pity him. Feel revulsion.

Thank whatever deity they prayed to they weren't in the same situation.

In the airport.

On the plane.

At the resort.

Over and over and over again.

And I was just too weak, just too worn down, just too finished with it all to bear any more.

But Louisa Clark, my resourceful Molahonkey girl, had found the perfect spot for us to visit.

The isle of Mauritius. A tiny little sliver of volcanic rock nestled away in the Indian Ocean.

Most people never even knew it existed.

'Mauritius was made first and then heaven, heaven being copied after Mauritius,' had written Mark Twain.

And Clark, having never been anywhere of real merit, was positively over the moon over the trip.

I didn't blame her. It was the trip of a lifetime.

And so though I knew I would be in a misery the entire time, I did not grumble.

I did not complain.

I nodded, tried to look interested as she chattered on and on.

Made her lists. Checked her lists.

Rechecked her lists. And rechecked her lists.

As if she were some sort of obsessive-compulsive Father Christmas.

---

The day finally arrived.

When the grand globetrotting trio embarked upon their epic Quest to Find the Thing That Would Make Will Want to Live.

Starring:

Nate the Great Crip Keeper.

Clark, Crip Companion Extraordinaire.

And, of course, the Cryptic Crip himself.

William Traynor.

Me.

Bloody hell.

My father saw us off, grinning like a ridiculous, horny, Cheshire cat.

"Don't get up to too much mischief."

Even winking rankishly at a nonplussed Clark.

Good God, Dad, keep it in your trousers, eh? Especially when mine doesn't work properly anymore.

---

And then, despite all my misgivings and negativities, the trip there actually got on quite easily.

Most, if not all the passengers on the plane, paid us no mind.

I suppose all of us being relegated to seated position for twelve plus hours . . .

Not the only one with a sore arse now, am I? Ha!

. . . subjected to modest airline food and ghastly American sitcoms . . .

Are American waitresses really that insipid?

. . . sort of put us all on the same level.

I ate. Traded conversation.

And mostly did what I did best nowadays.

Slept.

Even when we departed the plane and, Clark nearly tearing up with relief, traveled to the hotel without a hitch.

I know the scenery was beautiful and the white sand beaches calling my name, but nothing then could compare to the relief and relaxation of that grand hotel bedroom.

Quiet and still and comfy.

I slept for nearly forty-eight hours.

Only waking to eat and receive the necessary toiletry attentions.

Much like an infant.

Then, I woke up.

And I mean really woke up.

I mean, after all, she was in a sarong. And a bikini.

Well, hello, Clark! And hello, ladies!

Chapter 27: Too Close

The storm was getting too close.

In the morning there would be property damage.

Debris.

General untidiness.

But tonight, oh tonight. It was glorious.

My Molahonkey girl moved to close the balcony doors.

Shut out the tempest, still the air.

For my safety. For hers.

But I stopped her.

"No, leave it open. I want to see it."

The storm was magnificent.

Thundering and flashing and tearing up the night outside the window.

Pouring all its energy and might into the sky, the sea.

The entire world.

I felt its electricity in every pore, in every fiber of my being.

And I knew this was a perfect moment that I would be grateful I had lived long enough to see.

And it never would have have presented itself to me in such a glorious, inspiring way if not for Louisa Clark.

"Can you feel it?" I asked her amid rolls of ocean thunder.

She didn't look back, entranced by the sight before her.

"It's like the end of the world."

Her voice was filled with wonder.

As I also was entranced and filled with wonder of the storm.

And her.

Louisa Clark.

Standing there, framed by lightening, wrapped in thunder.

And my white button up.

My white button up and very little else.

She had no idea how beautiful she was to me just then.

She had never known.

And, if I could keep my yearning mouth shut, she would never know.

Which, it turned out, I couldn't.

Not entirely.

She came over to me, pulling me close long enough to adjust my neck pillow.

And me long enough to gaze into those beautiful blue eyes.

And spoke.

"Don't go back to your room tonight, Clark."

I want you here. I need you here.

Stay with me.

All week life had been unreal, like a dream.

Days laying on the beach, feeling a truly warm sun soaking into my frozen bones.

Warming me for the first time since my accident on that rain soaked, fateful day.

The resort staff had gone out of their way to accommodate us without overtly looking like they were accommodating us.

A chair with the wide wheels for traversing the sand.

The food, delicious and light, fragrant and spicy.

Very un-English.

Even the bloke Nadil, who took our little troupe on as his personal paradise project.

Even so far as providing drinks delivered straight to my chair proffered so that I could enjoy myself without the aid of Nathan or Clark.

And when I lay, as I did so often, on a sunbed, body stretched out to the perfectly warm sun and tangy sea breezes, I could feel almost normal.

Clark there next to me, wrapped in a sarong, brightly colored sundress, or a tastefully cut, alluring bikini.

Together calling encouragement or abuse out to Nathan as he capsized yet again boogie boarding.

Walking his new lady friend back to her accommodations.

"Ah, yes, very civic minded."

"Such chivalry."

Watching him blush and grin.

"Ah, piss off the both of you."

But good-natured and happy nevertheless.

Me wishing I could walk Louisa, well, anywhere.

I never for one moment forgot I was paralyzed.

I never forgot that I couldn't reach out and take her hand as we soaked up our island getaway.

Or run with her in my arms into the surf, screaming and struggling and laughing all the way.

Dance with her to the celebratory island night music.

Make love to her on the beach.

I never forgot for a second I couldn't do any of those things I wanted to do.

But I strove to appreciate her presence, enjoy watching her stretch and grow as she experienced each new thing.

Smile at her as she smiled back at me.

Enjoy conversation.

Laugh at our own private jokes.

And push her, always push her to try something new.

Windsurfing.

Kayaking.

I knew she was growing ever more hopeful.

That I would live.

On. With her.

And I wanted to, I truly did.

Want to feel the way she did.

I knew it could be good.

Day by day next to Louisa Clark.

It could be good.

For a while.

But nothing good could last forever in a situation such as mine.

Here on this island paradise, it felt as though it might.

But we eventually would have to leave.

And go. Anywhere else.

Return to reality.

I returned to reality every time Nathan had to change my tubes.

Or Nidal had to transfer me to or from my chair.

Or Louisa had to feed me a bite of food.

Not that I didn't enjoy her delectable fingers hovering so close to my hungry mouth.

But it should have been a treat to have her feed me. A sensual experience, evening silliness. Not a necessity, a forgone conclusion.

Something would happen. Anything would happen. Nothing would happen.

And I would remember my life was not to be lived in this way.

With or without Clark.

And no matter how beautiful and generous and kind she was, it would eventually draw thin.

She would become aware of being trapped by me.

Or not, which seemed worse.

I would fall ill again, succumb to sickness.

Lose further independence.

Entrapping her more so into my misery.

Or simply watch her day after day. Unable to touch her, kiss her, make love to her.

It would eventually drive me mad.

Being alive. But not being able to live.

And so, having ruminated on these things over and over again to the detriment of all else, I attempted to, in that secluded island paradise, accept them for the time being.

Find some measure of peace.

In the comfort that, when I had soaked up all this goodness as much as possible, soaked up Clark as much as possible.

We would return home.

And I would begin final preparations to go to Switzerland.

And end this existence with the most peace in my heart I could manage.

Hopefully with Louisa by my side.

And it was with this final, hopeful thought that I divided myself between gazing at the storm and gazing at my beautiful Clark.

Since her arrival into my life, she had brought me a quality of life I had not known since the accident.

Not by her demure, long-suffering weepiness.

But by fighting it out of me.

Giving me a purpose.

I had seen her grow and thrive.

Become someone capable of accomplishing anything she put her mind to.

By taking care of me.

By dedicating herself to the task of Making Will Happy.

And though it sounded selfish, I enjoyed it for the time allotted to us.

Knowing it was evolving her beyond her small town.

And hoping when the time came, she would still be able to let go of me.

As I faced letting go of her.

Letting go of her.

Yes, at the appointed time.

But not yet.

Don't go back to your room tonight, Clark.

A quiet, simple request.

Easily shrugged aside.

But not by Clark, no.

She snuggled down briefly next to me.

As though she belonged there. Which she did.

Head gently resting on my shoulder, face turned to the storm.

And I thought I would be content that way.

Oh Louisa, you beautiful perfect thing. I love you.

Then she raised her head again, as if drawn back to me.

She smiled gently and I, completely at her beck and call, smiled back.

I felt as though she were pulling everything out of my soul with those hypnotizing eyes.

So close, she was so close.

So close.

And getting closer.

I kept trying to remind myself not to let her get too close.

To avoid the inevitable fallout.

Minimize the emotional destruction were we to collide any more than we had already.

But those eyes, dear god, those big, round eyes set in that lovely, precious face.

Oh Clark. You're gloriously perfect, inside and out.

And I told myself not to let her get too close.

But she already was.

Too close and getting closer.

There in my bed, warm body lightly pressed against mine.

Leaning in, consuming me with her eyes.

And I reminded myself not to let her get too close.

The storm tried to stop me, dousing the lights so we were in near darkness.

Trying to alarm me, give her pause.

To no avail.

She filled my vision, became the only thing in my world.

I loved her and I knew I should not.

That it would end badly for us both.

But her lips were there, those red, sweet lips.

Oh Clark, you must stop, I must stop, we must stop.

But I forgot to say.

Because she was there.

And all I wanted in that moment was to feel her lips on mine.

Kiss her in return.

Warm, soft, light sweet breath wafted over my face.

Her eyes, so big, round, and full of her shining out soul entranced me, asking the question.

And all I could say was yes.

Her kiss was the sweetest I had ever known.

I love you, Louisa. I love you.

My entire being thrummed with desire for her.

But I was only me and she was all of her. And so I contented myself with long, slow, controlled kisses.

That I formlessly prayed would last all night.

A solid boom shook the resort, bringing me back to the world as I really was.

Which, though not as sweet as Clark's imaginary kisses, was still quite nice.

She lay against me, watching the storm.

"Not bad, huh, Clark?" I managed, inhaling the scent of her island, scented hair.

She murmured some agreement I didn't quite hear over the passion of the gale outside.

I lay there, grateful for her. Grateful for the island. Grateful for the storm.

And wanting so much more.

We lay there together, she and I, watching the squall.

Her presence, though arousing, was also calming.

Soothing.

And so I focused on that, encouraging the functional parts of me to relax.

Until, with my Molahonkey sprite by my side, I began to drift.

Dozing here and there.

Closing my eyes, only to open them again to her searching ones.

And her earnestness charmed me. And saddened me. Knowing how desperately she wished me good.

It's okay, Clark. It's okay. You've done well. You've Made Will Happy.

And I finally fell asleep.

Chapter 28: Moonlight and Sunrise

I woke to a calm night, a clear sky full of stars.

And a moon bright and shining high in the inky blackness, reflected brokenly in the undulating ocean waves.

Clark was at the open balcony window again, still garbed in my white button up and not much else.

Her back was to me as she gazed out over the Indian Ocean. Feet bare, one heel lifted slightly as though she were about to step forward into the waiting night.

Her hair was down and free, strands of it floating on the light sea breeze.

I took a deep breath, feeling my body fill deeply with clean island oxygen.

Stretched in the soft sheets, flexing my toes. Feeling my muscles strengthen and awaken as if after a long slumber.

And sat up slowly, pulling back the sheets to rise to my full, reinvigorated height.

My chest was bare, lower half clad only in blue striped pajama trousers.

I felt strong. I felt healthy. I felt virile.

I felt alive.

And there was only one place I wanted to be at that moment.

With her.

I moved toward her soundlessly, the polished wood floor cool beneath my feet.

She sensed my approach. Turned in slow shock and disbelief.

Eyes widened. Breath caught.

"Will? Will, how . . ."

I shook my head a little.

"I don't know. And it doesn't matter."

I reached out, cupping her precious face in my strong, gentle hands.

Drew her to me, felt her hands graze my sides. Palms pressing lightly against my flesh.

Gazed down at her open face gazing back up at me.

And felt a powerful surge of deep emotion.

I spoke then, releasing all I had kept locked within my chest, aching to break free.

"I love you, Louisa Clark. You have been my salvation these last few months more than I can possibly express. Thank you for bringing your light in my darkness."

As her lovely, red lips parted slightly with intake of breath, I lowered my head.

And kissed her.

Pressing my lips softly into hers. Thrilling as she pressed back with no hesitation at all.

Then I broke contact, just a little, to press my forehead against hers.

Closing my eyes and just breathing her in.

We stayed thus for a long moment before she spoke.

"Will?" came her breathy surresh. I opened my eyes to her liquid ones. "Kiss me again."

I did, starting once more with those luscious lips, then deepening further.

Slowly delving into her mouth as she opened it to me. Tasting her, becoming intoxicated by her.

A sound escaped her as she reached up to wrap her arms around my neck. A light exhalation of desire.

And my blood raced.

We pressed together, my hands lost in her silky tresses. Her hands moving like smoke across the muscles of my lower back.

We stayed there, silhouetted in the open window for an endless, delicious time.

Then it was she who drew back, leaving me wanting more.

And spoke with sincerity as she looked in my eyes. Her fingers traced my ears, curling themselves into my hair.

"I love you, Will. Now and then. You were never less than a man to me when you were in that chair. I would have been with you then if you had let me."

I smiled fondly at her.

"I know, Louisa. I know. And I don't want to disregard you. You have been disregarded by men enough to last a lifetime."

She smiled, stroking the planes of my face with her light touch.

"You won't. I trust you. You're not like them. You're different. You're Will."

My face broke into an easy, open smile.

"Yes, I am. I am Will."

She grinned then, full of sudden mischievousness which I found intolerably sexy.

"And now that we've got all that cleared up . . . let's see what's under those trousers!"

A burst of laughter escaped us both and my love for her deepened immeasurably.

As I squinted a playful smirk at her in the dim light.

"Well, I seriously doubt it's bumblebee tights, Clark."

She giggled, another intolerably sexy manifestation and I dipped my head down to hers again.

As she opened her mouth eagerly to mine, I leaned forward at the waist.

Gathering her up. Lifting her, pressing her to me.

Holding her so. Because it felt good.

And I was able.

Then I turned and laid her down onto the soft bed.

And covered her body with mine, losing myself to everything but her.

---

We undressed each other slowly, me delighting in lacing each new uncovered bit of her waiting flesh with an enticing caress and lover's kiss.

Her body was perfect to me. Curvy in all the right places. Soft and firm in all the right places. Inviting.

Her breathless gasps and quiet cries of delight echoed and redoubled in my ears. Her tremors and shudders of pleasure and excitement filled my vision when I paused to look upon her.

The taste of her, the smell of her. The soft silk of her skin, lightly brushed with sea salt.

It filled my entire existence and I reveled in it, rejoicing in the beauty and wonder of her.

She seemed eager to explore my body as well and I let her as much as I could manage without surrendering completely to my desire for her.

I delayed the gratification of that warm, secret, perfect spot until I could wait no longer.

And we became one.

The indulgence was so sweet and intense, I succumbed within a scant handful of minutes, groaning with long awaited pleasure deep in my throat.

Murmuring her sweet name over and over.

Pressing her to me, losing any sense of time and space.

Then we were finally still.

Wrapped together, my forehead pressed to her bare shoulder, I slowly regained control of myself enough to speak coherently.

"That last part was, uh, a bit more brief than I originally intended."

She giggled lightly, fingers tracing shivering paths along my collarbones and chest.

"I don't mind. It's a compliment really."

I rose up, kissing her nose.

"Is it now?"

Her cheeks.

"Yeah."

The line of her neck, just below the ears.

"So . . . am I to . . . assume . . ."

The hollow of her throat.

". . . you'd just as soon call it a night then?"

She laughed and I nuzzled her shamelessly.

"Not quite, Will Traynor. I'm not done with you yet!"

Then she flipped us over.

I let her, finding myself gazing up at her.

And once again being swept away with love and gratitude.

For my Molahonkey Clark.

---

I awoke to the quiet morning sunrise.

Clark still snuggled warmly against me. Breathing deep and even.

Content and peaceful.

I started to reach up, stroke a loving hand along her cheek.

And found that I couldn't.

Never could.

And never would.

The power of the dream was still strong upon my body and mind.

I could still taste her, hear her breathing my name.

I could still feel our bodies moving, fitting so perfectly together.

But all that fading with the creeping onset of reality.

A thick heaviness settled itself upon my chest, pressing me down with weight of my regret and sorrow.

I clenched my jaw, sudden tears springing my eyes.

I willed them away, not wanting Clark to awake to trails of salty, bitter tears I could not wipe from my cheeks.

I would go to Dignitas.

The certainty of that had never once been a question for me, no matter what Clark or my parents had wished.

Only strengthened further now by my regret and resentment that I could never be with Louisa in the way I so deeply desired to be.

A lover. A husband. A father to our children one day.

That and all the other things I missed in this world so cruelly and completely removed from me.

I would go to Dignitas.

I would say goodbye to this and all my lives.

And I needed to tell Clark.

Chapter 29: Louisa Clark Finally Finds Someone To Hate

The time had come.

I had waited as long as I could.

Probably too long.

All the way into the night of the last day.

As Nathan spent a few hours with Karen.

And my Molahonkey girl and I perused the beach one final time.

But I had selfishly wanted to relish the magic of the island, of the trip, of my Louisa as long as possible.

And now I milked it just a bit longer there in the dark, the sea lapping and waving before us.

The stars overhead.

And Clark.

Happy, lovely Louisa Clark.

"I . . . I don't want to go home!"

There on the beach.

"This has been the best!"

Adorned in a lovely blue sundress.

Proudly challenging me.

"You're glad you came. Right?"

Big bright smile.

"Yes," I replied, barely able to manage my roiling emotions, which seemed to be ever on the verge of spilling out of my eyes nowadays.

I'm glad I came here with you.

And I smiled for her.

My Louisa.

With her laughing eyes.

Dancing in the sand.

Feet bare and kissed by waves.

Flower in her curled dark hair.

Dancing and dancing and dancing.

Out of sheer delight and joy.

I laughed, letting her joy flow out to me, fill me up even more so with churning tides of feeling.

As she grinned and playfully shimmied.

To some faint drift of music floating out to us from one of the pubs down the way.

She thought she was being silly.

And she was, my giddy little Molahonkey sprite.

But she was also being the sexiest, most perfect creature I had ever laid eyes upon.

Stuck physically in this godawful chair, my mind soared out into the ether.

Where I rose from the chair unencumbered and swept her up in my embrace.

Kissed her.

Perhaps even danced a few silly little steps myself with her giggling madly in my arms.

Leapt into the waves.

And made passionate love to her in the sea.

Where she, unhurt, undamaged by men, felt no hesitation.

But welcomed me with open arms, an open smile.

And love.

My emotional and mental self ached for that freedom, that joy, that privilege.

As I sat still and trapped in my unresponsive bag of a body.

Louisa knew none of this however as she beamed in triumphant at me.

And approached slowly.

That small, only slightly self-conscious smile tugging at her lips.

And I found myself once again speaking.

"You . . . you are . . ."

Beautiful.

Perfect.

Ethereal.

Sexy as hell.

A godsend.

An angel.

My reason for living.

". . . something else, Clark."

And with barely a hesitation, she grinned. Edging herself onto my waiting lap.

As if she knew she belonged there.

That I wanted her there.

And would never dare to ask.

Placing her soft, delicate hands on my face, so warm, so loving, in a perfect cradle between jaw and neck.

Oh god I love you.

Gazing so deeply into my eyes.

Leaning forward slowly. So deliciously, painfully slowly . . .

Don't, Clark.

Stop.

I don't think I can bear only part of you.

Please.

Don't.

Stop.

. . . to press those warm, sweet lips finally to mine.

Her kiss was sweet and light, a thing of warmth and gentleness and love and promise.

Everything I knew it would be and had desired.

And I wanted, with every fiber of my being, to wrap my arms around her, press her to me.

She continued to kiss me and I, oh, I let go just a little and allowed myself to kiss her back.

The entire world surmised of only Louisa. Her lips and my mine together.

Fused with electricity and restrained passion and desire.

She broke contact just enough to gaze back into my eyes.

Eyes that could not bear to look upon her beauty, knowing I could not have it, could not keep it.

My entire self surged with emotion, my chest feeling as though it would tear apart under the power of it.

Oh please, god, just this once, oh let my limbs free and let me out of this chair!

And I couldn't.

I just couldn't.

Not now.

Not then, not ever.

And amid my desire and love and need, I knew I must tell her.

I could go no longer.

I either could have her. All of her and all of me.

And my life.

Or I could die.

Because I could not accept anything in between.

"Clark, I have to tell you something."

---

She had known all along, as I suspected she had.

Known and clung to the fruitless hope that things could change.

I could get better. Some miracle drug or surgery.

Or that I would simply change my mind.

And now, in the face of my harsh reality, she had tried, as she had done all along, to convince me.

That she, and this life, was enough.

"I can make you happy."

And I had tried, with my own brimming tears threatening to fall, to explain why it was not.

"It's not going to get any better than this. The doctors know it. And I know it."

I had poured my heart out.

"I need it to end here. No more pneumonia. No more burning limbs. No more pain and exhaustion and waking up every day wishing it was already over."

And requested what I knew was the worse for her.

"If you feel the things you say you feel, come with me to Switzerland."

Please come with me, Louisa. Let me die with your face on my heart and your love by my side.

She slipped from my lap as her heart began to crack. Lovely oval face crumpling, blue eyes filling with tears.

Her pain. It was so exquisite, so awful.

"I tell you I love you and I want to build a future with you and you ask me to come and watch you kill yourself?!"

And that hope she had clung to for so long began to cut her, slice her to ribbons.

"But . . . but . . . I thought I was changing your mind!"

And so it had come to this.

I couldn't lie to her. I couldn't stall. I didn't have the time.

"Nothing was ever going to change my mind."

On that secluded beach.

Tucked away on that little island.

Awash somewhere in the Indian Ocean.

Louisa Clark had finally found somebody to hate.

Me.

Breaking apart, she was breaking apart.

"Don't say another word! You are so . . . selfish!"

Crying and gasping for air, her heart completely torn asunder.

"I . . . I tore my heart out in front of you! And here all you can say is 'no'!"

It was, before and after the motorbike, one of the worst moments of my entire life.

"I wish I had never taken this stupid job! I wish I had never met you! "

And she meant it. At that moment, she really meant it.

It was indescribably terrible.

I would have given near anything to take away her misery and pain.

Anything except Switzerland.

I could not give up Switzerland.

Neither the timing nor the decision itself.

And I could not lie to her.

Utterly and completely heartbroken, Louisa Clark stumbled away from me, barefoot and weeping.

Never had she left me alone so absolutely.

I called after her, into the yawning darkness.

"Louisa!"

Begging.

"Louisa!"

But she did not turn back.

She was gone.

I sat alone and looked out at the ocean waves.

They called to me.

Like soothing, deadly sirens to a drowning man begging for release, for reprieve.

If I could have driven my borrowed chair right into them.

Let them swallow me up and take me away.

Without causing any more heartbreak and sorrow to my crushed little sprite.

I would have.

In a heartbeat.

I'm sorry, Louisa. I'm so sorry.

But I can't.

I just can't.

Chapter 30: Molahonkey Withdrawal

The trip back was, needless to say, excruciating.

"Louisa."

She wouldn't look at me.

"Louisa, come over here."

She wouldn't talk to me.

"Louisa, please."

She wouldn't even acknowledge my presence.

If I had thought the few days of stiff formality we had endured in my flat following the beginning of her brief cohabitation with Running Man was miserable, it was nothing compared to this.

She was the very definition of avoidance through perpetual motion.

Checking luggage tags.

Paperwork.

Meticulously mixing the most exacting amounts of cream and sugar into her coffee.

The daily news, even. Something she normally would have hardly given a second glance.

She was also the definition . . .

"Clark-"

. . . of stoicism.

"Don't. I don't want to talk to you."

Not even the good-natured whilst still hungover Nathan could permeate her defenses there in that airport.

Though she must have said something because although there was a Great Wall of China of Discontent and Discomfort between Louisa and I, he gamely refused to acknowledge it.

Chatting on about football scores and the like.

But for once, I was the one holding out fruitless hope.

There in the suffocating cabin of that plane, hurdling through space a thousand meters off the ground.

Maybe if I just gave her a little time, her anger at me would cool.

"Want a drink, Clark?"

She would think and reconsider.

"Is my elbow too far over your armrest?"

Forgive my hurt and see the desperate hope and love behind it.

"Louisa, what movie are you interested in watching?"

Even as a good man, I have rarely been so devoutly attentive to the needs of another.

In my former life during times of duress with a female, I'd usually vacillated between 'my best manners' and 'suit yourself, my dear'.

But during that trip home, if I was not sleeping or engaging in polite small talk with Nathan, I was focused on her.

My Clark.

My Molahonkey girl.

My Louisa.

Who stoutly was having none of it . . .

"No, thank you."

"No. It's fine."

"I don't care."

. . . and shut me out as effectively as if she had erected an actual wall.

With a moat.

Drawbridge.

Armed guards.

And an ice dragon.

And she would not under any circumstances, let me in.

Attend my dove.

Or receive my summons.

I had hurt her so much.

There was no way around it.

But I'd had no choice, no option. But to tell the truth.

I could, perhaps, have simply disappeared off to Switzerland at the appointed time.

Left my mother to explain the situation.

And die without Clark by my side.

The coward's, the lonely man's, way out.

And so I endured her complete and utter detachment from me without the sarcasm. Without anger.

Because I'd well and truly earned it.

On occasion, Louisa, looking on the verge of hyperventilating, would abruptly excuse herself to the lavatory.

Only to return later.

Pale cheeked and red eyed.

I worried about her.

But could not reach her.

Because of what I had done.

I did not blame her for hating me.

What I had requested was selfish. An awful burden to ask her to shoulder.

Borne out of desperation and pain.

Fear and dread of my quadriplegic future.

And determination not to ruin whatever future she might have were she not tied to me.

I did not regret my decision in the face of what was to come.

Only that I had hurt her so badly with it.

I never should have gotten close.

Never should have let her in.

I should have stayed strong in my hate.

Refused to care. Or at least let her think I didn't care.

So that it may have been easier to let go.

Instead of ever feeling at all.

Or letting her feel.

I'm sorry, Louisa. I'm sorry.

---

The speed with which she sprinted off the plane.

Swept past my eager mother.

My panama hatted father.

And onto the waiting bus.

Would have impressed even Running Man.

Truly astonishing.

My mother never spoke of what she said.

But I knew it was all out in the open when my father had to dive in to catch her faint.

As Louisa's taxi pulled away from the curb.

And I wondered if I would ever see her again.

---

The four days between our return trip home and my final jaunt to Switzerland were some of the longest, most unendurable, most hopeless of my entire life.

Everytime I woke it was with the crushing knowledge that my Molahonkey sprite was gone.

And that I had driven her away.

I listened to music.

Endured Nathan's continued daily ministrations.

Stared listlessly out windows for hours.

Seeing behind my mind's eyes, Louisa's exuberant smile . . .

. . . as she finally broke the surface of the ocean water.

Pulling off her snorkeling mask and breathing apparatus, screaming out over the ocean in glee.

"Why didn't you make me do that earlier?! That was amazing!"

Me grinning at her sheer, unbridled enthusiasm, knowing she would never fade away now.

"I don't know, Clark! Some people just won't be told!"

As she screamed and screeched and whooped to the sky.

. . . turn to heartbroken despair.

"Please, Will. Just give me a chance. Just give us a chance."

But I hadn't.

I couldn't.

And now, she was gone forever.

Shit.

---

"Hello, Will."

I turned my chair slowly to face her.

Face calm, eyes quiet.

"Hello, Mother."

She attempted a smile. But gave up rather quickly as it died upon her face.

"I see Louisa has not returned."

I refused to flinch, to feel.

"No."

Camilla Traynor, with her perfect hair and pinched face stared out the window behind me for a moment before continuing.

"I could call her if you like. Speak with her, perhaps."

It spoke something of my mother's concern for me.

She found Clark irritating, like a gnat buzzing in her ear.

But her suicidal son cared for the young woman and that really was all she need know.

I shook my head.

"No. Leave her alone. Let her go. I'm not going to hurt her anymore."

She nodded slowly.

"Alright then."

Silence hung between my mother and me.

Then she cleared her throat.

"I'd like to come with you, if I may. To Switzerland."

I took a deep breath, so weary of this same argument time and again.

This same argument that would always end the same way.

"Mother, if you haven't changed my mind in six months, what makes you think-"

She gestured lightly, interrupting me.

"No, Will. Not that."

It was then I noticed her hands, her fingers.

Laced together at her middle. No longer twisting, twisting, twisting the crucifix necklace.

But still.

Accepting.

"Please let me come with you. Please let me say goodbye to my son."

I looked at her.

Camilla Traynor looked immeasurably sad.

But clear.

And accepting.

And suddenly I was overtaken by a memory from long ago.

A family picnic.

On a gently rolling hill.

All of us together.

My mother and I laying in the green grass side by side.

Me, tossing out some perfectly inappropriate joke she wasn't supposed to laugh at.

Which she did.

And both of us had laughed and laughed into the sky.

My sister, amateur photographer, snatching up her camera and snapping the foto.

Which Alicia later framed.

My mother displayed to inspire the ailing quad.

Who ruthlessly dashed it to the floor in a fit.

That Clark attempted to fix with wood glue and persistent cheerfulness.

And I sorrowed for my mother then.

Who had suffered so greatly at my spite every day since I had given up hope.

I nodded slowly. Spoke gently.

"Of course, Mother."

She didn't verbally respond, only continued gazing out at some point I could not see.

Then nodded in reply.

And quietly, respectfully, left me to myself.

And my memories of Louisa.

I have become a whole new person because of you.

Chapter 31: Switzerland

The Swiss countryside was beautiful, I am positively sure.

Pristinely clear blue lakes.

Miles and miles of green fields.

Backdrop of snowcapped mountain peaks.

The quiet, the calm, the peacefulness.

I know it was beautiful.

Made more so by the fact I would never see any of it again.

In a car.

Riding toward some faceless destination, only viewed via Internet pictures and video.

Where I would, of my own volition, die.

Close my eyes and never again open them in this world.

I had chosen this. Wanted it. Planned for it.

Said goodbye, in my own way, to anyone and everyone I deemed necessary.

Except Clark.

Even Nathan and I had taken a brief moment that morning.

Completed with the last of my medicals, he had risen with a slight grunt.

"Well, alright then, Mr. T. That's the last of it."

Big stocky Nathan. Never complained, never flinched, never withdrew, no matter the situation.

Professional man, he was.

"Thank you, Nathan."

And I had swallowed a lump in my throat.

"No problem, mate."

"No, Nathan. Thank you."

He paused, looking back at me.

"I don't know a better man to have in a bad situation."

He clenched his jaw, fleeted a falsely jaunty smile, the extent of emotion he was willing to show.

"Oh, don't get all teary-eyed on me now, Mr. T.. Otherwise, I'll be forced to make you stay."

I smiled, sniffed back emotion.

"I would've liked to have known you in a different life, Nathan."

He nodded.

"Yes. I'd've liked that too."

There seemed to be more.

But no plausible way to say any of it.

Safe trip off your death then.

Yeah, thanks for cleaning my arse.

So he went. And I let him go.

---

And now I was choosing to go into my final hours.

Because the alternative for me was unspeakable.

Everything was happening for the final time.

I had planned on relishing it.

Every sensation.

Every movement.

Every sound, every smell, every taste.

Committing every single thing I saw and felt to memory for the very last time.

But I couldn't.

None of it mattered.

Because she was gone.

Six months ago I had never fancied she existed in this world.

Now I couldn't fancy a world without her in it.

Louisa Clark.

With her crazy dresses, her curious hairdos.

Wiggly caterpillar eyebrows.

Her beatific smile and bright blue eyes.

Her heart, her soul shining right out of her all the time.

She was imprinted on me.

I was better for knowing her. Immensely so.

But was she better for knowing me?

I had once thought perhaps.

I'll make her see everything, all the possibilities in the world. All of her potential.

I still believed those things about her.

It was the reason I had, the day previous, opened the voice text software on my computer for the last time.

Knowing exactly what I had set up.

And knowing exactly how I was going to present my final wishes.

I love you, Louisa. I believe in you. Please still believe in yourself.

And begun to compose my correspondence.

"Clark,

A few weeks will have passed by the time you read this . . ."

I could only hope I had not destroyed a part of her she could never get back.

And that she would move forward.

Into the wide world that would be better for her in it.

---

It was a very odd situation.

Rolling in the front door of the unremarkable flat that was Dignitas.

Shielded from those hostile against its function by purposeful anonymity itself.

A woman in a quiet loose clothing greeted us.

Hello? I'm here to kill myself. Bed for one, please. No turndown service necessary.

Having dealt with many before me, her poise and affability were demurely flawless.

She unobtrusively showed us to our quarters, a simple two-room suite.

One with a table and chairs, a sofa and a few low-lit lamps.

The other mostly composed of a bed looking out on a lovely little garden spot.

A discreetly placed video camera, providing recorded evidence that each deceased had done so out of his or her own free will without any coercion.

The walls were plain and austere, only a calming watercolor or two to adorn them.

Polished hardwood floor.

Slightly antiseptic smell one associates with hospitals, old age homes.

And death.

It was the best it could be for what it was.

"This is . . . nice," my mother managed.

I almost smiled, thinking how mortified she would be if Clark had said the same thing.

"Yes."

---

They settled me into the soft bed, made me as comfortable as possible.

"Please take as much time as you need."

And we did.

My parents and me.

We sat together, reminiscing and telling stories.

"Do you remember, Mother, the time with the kittens . . ."

And she would smile and take up the thread once more.

With me thinking regretfully that I had never thought to tell Louisa that story.

I had never seen my parents treat each other so kindly.

They spoke to each other with gentle respect. My mother did not shrink away from my father's touch.

I could only imagine the aftereffects of my decision for them.

But for now we simply enjoyed each other's company as we had not for years.

My sister arrived an hour later. Shrillness gone from her voice, fury gone from her face.

Diminished and despondent in her resolution to be at my side.

"Hey, Wills."

"Hey, Georgie."

She said not much else after that.

Much like the rest of us, she was choosing to keep the peace.

And I was profoundly grateful.

---

Near the end of the afternoon, the woman who had greeted us came in and spoke briefly with my mother in the next room.

She left and my mother returned.

Anxiously twisting her hands as she looked at me.

"Will, please don't be angry. I know you said to leave her alone but . . . I contacted Louisa. She's here. She wants to see you."

Clark . . .

Chapter 32: Molahonkey Land

"Thank you, Mother."

That was what I had most sincerely whispered to my mother as she perched on my bedside.

Right before Louisa Clark walked in the door and knocked over the knickknacks.

I heard her gasp and immediately my entire being swelled with relief that she was there.

Gratitude.

Joy.

Love.

And of course, amusement.

With Louisa, there was always a certain level of amusement.

Oh, my Clark. My Molahonkey girl. You perfect thing, you.

And there she was.

Stammering and apologizing.

And of course, I had to give her what for.

"The familiar sound of Louisa Clark making an entrance."

Somewhat gentler and softer than I might have previously.

Before redirecting to my mother.

"I'd like to talk to Louisa privately. Is that alright?"

She nodded mutely, brushing a hand across my hair as she rose.

Of course she would do whatever I asked of her without argument now.

But I wanted to be kind. She had been through so much because of me that I wanted her to remember me kind.

At least once.

She surreshed my muted sister up from her slouch in a corner chair.

And then it was just us.

Louisa. And me.

She was beautiful, as she had always been.

White dress adorned with colorful flitting butterflies. Light blue cardigan.

Luminous, earnest face.

Lovely blue eyes.

Dark brunette hair soft around her oval face.

And that smile. That smile so warm and bright.

I have never been so grateful and happy to see anyone in all my lives.

"Don't tell me," I managed to lightly snark. "You're here to make my last cup of tea."

Proper tea, right, Clark? Not the lesbian tea now.

And she laughed, just a little.

"Actually, no."

And returned with her own retort.

"I'm . . . I'm here to kidnap you."

I saw how strong she was being.

"And take you to . . ."

And I was so proud.

"Where?"

She wavered for a moment, formulating her response.

"Rio."

I grinned.

"Hmm."

Ooh, good choice. I'll buy you an entire wardrobe of bikinis.

"Or my mum and dad's," she amended lightly. "I haven't decided."

Ah, another good choice. Lovely cook, your mum.

And she would do it too.

All I had to do was say the word.

And Louisa Clark would go anywhere, do anything.

Just to keep old crip Will alive and by her side.

Oh Louisa, I love you. I'm so grateful for you.

"Open the doors, Clark."

It was beautiful out there.

Warm breezes wafted around her into the room to me as she slowly swung them wide.

The gentle sun bathed her in afternoon light as she turned to me and smiled.

I was overcome by her beautiful soul shining out of her all the time.

And now that she was here, I didn't want to let her go.

"Come here."

She acquiesced without hesitation, laying herself down next to me.

Encircling me with her embrace, her acceptance. Her love.

I love you, Louisa. I love you so.

I had tried and failed not to love her.

Not to let her love me.

It was why I most often called her 'Clark', you see.

To keep her just a step away from me.

"Closer."

But it hadn't worked.

"Look at me."

Not at all.

"Please, look at me."

She was a part of me now. More than anyone else had ever been.

"I can't."

And all I wanted was to keep her.

"Tough."

And couldn't.

"I need to see that face."

Not like this.

"I need to see that face of yours."

Not without the means to give her everything she deserved.

"Even if it is all pink and blotchy."

Not if it meant causing her and myself even more heartbreak.

"You really are the most impossible man, Will Traynor."

As I deteriorated into more and more of a helpless, potentially mindless state.

"And the world will definitely be a better place without me."

And so, I had to take the next step and let her and myself go.

"No. No, it won't."

She removed that beautiful, pink, blotchy, crying face from my sight.

Laying her head down on my chest once more.

And clinging to me so desperately I feared for her alone.

"Don't be sad, Clark."

No, don't be sad for too long. There's too much life for you to live.

And that's what this whole thing is about anyway.

"Tell me something good."

You, Clark. You are good. You are my good.

From the moment you entered my life, you have been my good.

But how could I say all the things in my heart to her?

Without breaking us both further?

I couldn't.

So I did the only thing that I could to show her an iota of how I felt.

I sang to her.

With tears in my eyes and love in my heart, I sang.

The song that had been bouncing around in my head ever since the night of the snow.

The song that accompanied me nearly everywhere.

The song that had, along with her shining face, followed me into sleep nearly every night since.

The song that she had first sung to me.

That silly, nonsensical ditty of a thing that was so precious to me now.

The song I would have sung our children and our grandchildren, were life different.

"I wi-li-lished . . . I li-li-ived . . . in Molahonkey land . . ."

It was imperfect and broken, my singing.

Like my heart.

And her heart.

She rose up to face me.

And my voice, my brave façade failed me in the depth of those beautiful, loving, blue eyes.

And I felt vulnerable, naked.

Needful of her presence and strength.

"Will you stay?"

And she, once more, gave me everything I needed to continue on.

"For as long as you want me to."

And then she kissed me.

Light and feathery and so tender.

I almost cracked, let it all out.

But instead, I kept my eyes closed and breathed her in. Soaked her up.

Memorized every detail, every molecule, every bit of her.

To take with me wherever I was about to go next.

And when I opened my eyes, she was still there.

Gazing at me.

Giving me something to hold onto.

For as long as I needed.

And I was suddenly terrified.

I didn't want to die.

The prospect of it scared the shit out of me.

Of being forever separated from Louisa, from everything I had ever known.

But I also couldn't bear to live on like I was. In constant fear and anxiety.

I couldn't hurt anymore.

And I couldn't not live in the least little bit as I wanted.

As much as I didn't want to leave Louisa, leave the sounds of those birds, the feel of the breeze, and the sight of that clear, azure sky, I couldn't live on those things alone forever.

And so I breathed her in, felt her hair tickling my cheek.

Glanced a bird wing its way gracefully past the window.

And spoke again. My voice thick with resolve and emotion.

"Can you call my parents in?"

---

It drank down surprisingly well.

I hadn't considered a lethal barbiturate would taste so much like sweetened condensed milk underlay with chalk.

My parents were there, my sister, their eyes shimmering with tears.

My mother stroked her fingers gently along my face.

"My boy," she murmured quietly. "My Will, I love you so much."

I responded in kind. Watched my father nod his head, unable to speak.

Clark was there. Those big blue eyes wide and full of love for me.

Don't be sad, Clark. Please not for too long.

I was growing sleepy, my eyelids drooping down over the final visage of my family and my Clark.

I felt my breath deepening, slowing.

I felt a quiet wave of relief then.

The pain was ending. Forever.

The fear. The uncertainty.

All my torment and misery were fading away.

I was free, was going to be free.

And they, those whom I loved, would manage.

I knew they would.

They were strong. They were brave. They were determined.

They could learn to breathe again.

I believed that. Had faith in it.

Because I must.

I love you all. Thank you for letting me go. Please remember the best of me.

And then, so gently and quietly I hardly noticed at all, I closed my eyes.

And went to sleep.

---

". . . Le Marais. Then I thought perhaps we could take a stroll up to the place with the perfume if you like. Show me what you think I ought to be smelling like."

Oh that smile.

That beautiful, bright smile.

With all those teeth.

And those sparkling eyes.

More confident now. More self-assured.

It was a wonderful thing to behold.

The tiny table between us stood on spindly white legs perched on carefully swept cobblestones.

Her croissant was nearly gone. Coffee cup half full.

Gauloises' smoke from the Bridget Bardot the next table over wafted temporarily across our conversation.

And I smiled at her.

Louisa Clark.

The most beautiful, most magnificent, most divine thing in all of Paris.

France.

The world.

Resplendent in her crisp white blouse and smart navy skirt.

And bumblebee striped legs.

She was gazing out over the square, a pleasant little smile adorning her lovely face.

I lost myself in her for a moment.

Her simple, unaffected beauty.

Heedless of the other young women strolling along, giving me the eye as they passed.

I only noticed them because as fine and lovely as I'm sure they each were, none of them could begin to compare to the one sitting just across from me at that moment.

Then she looked back to me.

Eyebrows raising in curiosity.

"What?"

My smile widened as I drank her in.

"You're beautiful, you know. You're absolutely fantastic."

She blushed prettily in the sunlight, pink lightly painting high on her cheekbones.

"Thank you. You're not so bad yourself, Will Traynor."

I felt a surge of pride for her, simply accepting my compliment instead of combating with some ridiculous negatory comment about herself.

She had come so far. So very, very far.

I rose, pushing back my chair.

"Come on," I invited. "Let me take you somewhere."

I offered her my arm and she tucked her own neatly into it.

I pressed it lightly against my side, causing her to lean into me and place a light hand upon my forearm.

Which I fondly covered with my own.

"Alright, Clark. Where would you like to go first?"

She hesitated for a second, turning her head this way and that to take in all the possibilities.

Then back to me, lovely face turning upward slightly as we strolled together.

"Anywhere. Everywhere. Everywhere with you."

I laughed effortlessly, feeling the reverberation and rumble deep within my healthy chest.

She joined in, musical tones intermingling with mine, floating above our heads and out into the air.

"Okay. We'll start with the place with the perfume then."

Notes:

"I choose to be happy for what they gave me when I had them rather than mourn what was taken from me." – 'The Jargogling of Ichabod Crane', chapter 26, fanfiction author LouBlue.

I must admit, Will's ending was harder to write now that I know him so well. I, like Clark, didn't want to let him go.

But I hope this is something we can all use to let go and breathe.

And, like Will said, live.

And thank you for reading. It has been my pleasure to write this and I hope you enjoyed it.

Hugs and happiness and joyful reading of whatever you like. Bye! :D

Notes:

Suffice it to say, this will be quite dark for a bit (you've seen/read it, yeah?). But we all know after a while, Lou starts working her magic. And it helps. A little.

Anyway, don't know if anyone's going to read this or like it but here's tryin'. Not like I can't write after watching that movie! Not if I want to be able to sleep! ;)

Speaking of which, this will be a mixture of book and movie with few extra tidbits thrown in, but all as canon-respective as possible.

Which means you know the end.

But there's a lot of good stuff before that.

Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.