Title: The Act of Dying
Author: Megara79
Series: Star Trek: Voyager
Rating: K+
Summary: Dying, she decided, was an act that left a lot to be desired - A post-Endgame strory, set a few years after Voyagers return.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Thanks to: Evil Shall Giggle, who's still made of awesome
Dying, she decided, was an act that left a lot to be desired.
The initial process was the worst. The feeling of sharp metal slicing through her skin. The cut through underlying muscle. The blade of the knife rasping against a rib. The tip embedding itself in her right lung, collapsing it.
By the second stab, every nerve ending seemed to be on fire, the pain making her knees buckle and her already laboured breath hitch. She wanted to scream, but the developing pneumothorax made it difficult to draw her breath. A small, pathetic whimper escaped her instead. She heard the knife fall to the ground and the sound of footsteps running away as her knees gave out from under her. She hit the asphalt hard, and for one ridiculous moment, like there weren't more pressing matters to worry about, found herself hoping that the fall hadn't torn the dress she was wearing. It was brand new and he hadn't seen it yet. It was way too late for worrying, of course. The dress was already ruined by the crimson stains that slowly made their progress across the cream-coloured fabric.
She managed to half-roll, half-push herself up into a sitting position, and she leant her back heavily against the wall of the nearby building. Looking down, she briefly wondered where her left shoe was. Her vision blurred and she closed her eyes trying to fight off her vanishing focus. 'There it is,' she thought when she opened her eyes again, seeing the high-heeled shoe on its side next to the knife. 'A knife?'
'Yes, of course a knife. You've been stabbed, remember?' She almost chuckled at her own stupidity.
Looking from the shoe to the knife, her eyes finally settled on her upper body. Her hand gently touched at the stab wound on her thorax. She flinched. The blood was warm and sticky, and she noted, with some alarm, that it kept trickling from the cut. The second stab had entered a little lower and to the left, and her concern grew as she realised it must have perforated her liver. The continuous oozing of blood confirmed her suspicions, and she couldn't help thinking that it was just her luck to get stabbed in one of the most vascular organs of the body. 'No point doing anything half-way. How very Janeway of me,' she thought sarcastically.
It was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe and she tried pressing a hand over the wound in her chest, hoping that by sealing off the body cavity, her pneumothorax would stabilise, maybe even decrease. She quickly realised that the attempt was futile. Besides, wasn't the second wound more serious? After all, she could survive a collapsed lung. Bleeding to death? Not so much. The oncoming coldness that left her fingertips and toes numb rather carelessly informed her that her analysis of the situation was right. She twisted to her side and moved her hands to put pressure on the second wound, this time hoping to stem the blood loss.
She lay like that for a moment, the movement nearly exhausting her. She felt her heart beat like a furious drum, echoing in her ears as it desperately tried to supply her failing body with oxygen. Her breath came in small shallow gulps, and her entire body hurt. She momentarily contemplated the irony of the situation. She had survived seven years in the Delta Quadrant. She had lived through countless life-and-death situations, battling some of the galaxy's most dangerous species. She had beaten the odds and she'd made it home, only to be stabbed in an alleyway by a young boy whose reasons, she suspected, would never be known.
The attack had come out of nowhere.
She had been running late and had decided to hurry through the alley to get to the restaurant in time. Their wedding anniversary had been three weeks ago, but they'd both been too busy to celebrate it at the time. She'd been on Romulus on the actual day and he'd been working late every night the past two weeks grading exam papers. This was the first night they both had off since then, and she'd bought the dress in her lunch break. She'd commed him as she left the office, apologising profusely for leaving later than she'd promised. He'd laughed and told her he'd been quite aware when he married her that he was marrying a workaholic. He'd jokingly said that he loved her nonetheless and that their seven years in the Delta Quadrant had prepared him for this. She'd smiled, telling him that she'd find a way to make it up to him.
She'd walked through that same alley many times before. It was still light out and the connecting streets were bustling. She had no reason to worry. The boy had come out of nowhere, and he had moved so very fast. All she'd seen was a pair of haunted eyes and sandy blond hair. He hadn't threatened her, he hadn't asked for her valuables. He'd used his weapon swiftly and grabbed her purse before escaping.
She wanted to cry for help, but her body was refusing to follow orders. The coldness had moved from her toes and fingers and had settled in her entire body, and the pain was slowly ebbing away. She wanted to reach for her comm. badge only to remember that it was in her stolen purse. She coughed and the effort almost made her pass out.
She didn't hear the cry for help from the woman who first spotted her. She didn't feel the strong arms that lifted her onto the gurney or the tingle of the emergency transport to the hospital. She vaguely registered that someone was asking her questions.
"Please…" she managed. "Get my husband. He's waiting for me. I'm late." Another coughing fit claimed her as a calm voice told her not to worry; that the professor had been notified and was on his way. She briefly wondered if she'd given them his name or if they'd just recognised her.
She struggled to keep awake as doctors and nurses worked to stabilize her. The light in the room was too bright and she wanted to give in to the darkness that seemed so eager to envelope her from within. She heard someone say her name and she forced her eyes open. It took a moment for her to focus on the person who'd appeared by the biobed.
"Hey," she whispered as she recognised Chakotay's face.
"Hey," he whispered back, grabbing her hand.
"I didn't make it to the restaurant."
"I can see that."
"Do you like my dress?" she coughed. "It's a bit stained." She smiled weakly.
"I like the bra better," he joked, trying hard to keep his voice from shaking.
She gingerly lifted her hand towards her chest, and felt flesh and the smooth texture of her silk bra. "They cut the dress?" she asked.
"They had to," his voice faltered and she could see he was struggling.
The look on his face made Kathryn want to scream. She wasn't ready. She wasn't ready to leave him.
"Just hang on," he said, kissing her forehead.
"I love you," she breathed in return.
"Don't say that," he answered, recognising her need to say goodbye.
"I have to."
"Kathryn, please…"
"Sir, you need to step outside now." The voice, the same one that had told Kathryn Chakotay was on his way, was now directed at her husband. She heard him protest, but felt his hand slip from hers nonetheless. It became increasingly difficult to keep the darkness at bay. The pain was completely gone now, and all she could think of was how desperately tired she was. She faintly heard him call out her name before she lost her fight and darkness surrounded her.
TBC