Summary: The downfall of Lt. Malcolm Reed.
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em.
Etc: This is my first Enterprise piece. Please be nice, or not. I don't care.
Feedback: Knock yourself out.
Death
1.
He runs.
Quickly, quickly, he whispers to himself. Keep going; don't falter. Run, run, he whispers. Never stop; don't quit. He can't let himself. To falter is to stop, to stop is to quit, to quit is to fail and to fail.to fail is to die.
He is not ready for death. He is too young; he has too much life ahead of him, too many mistakes that he must correct. He is not ready for death and, yet, death still pursues him.
It follows doggedly, personified in the rumbling behind him.
Not yet, not yet, he whispers, listening to the pounding of his own feet on the floor. But pounding it is not, for he runs quickly, swiftly, lightly; but pounding it is to his ears, though quieter than the rumbling.
Sounds of his own blood rushing behind his ears roar. You never acknowledge this noise until in times of peril yet it's always there, like a tiger silently stalking you. He wants it to stop, to forget it and let himself concentrate on his running from the rumbling.
He runs down the hall, arms pumping, feet slapping, legs straining, lungs burning. He runs to outrun death personified in the fire behind him.
Keep going, keep going, he whispers. Don't falter, don't stop, don't quit, he whispers. Not yet; not yet.
The rumbling explosion is gaining.
He runs, body moving, body straining. He wants to cry, to weep, to sob; he doesn't. He must run, run away from the flames of death that will consume him. Go, go, go, he whispers.
Then he sees it: the window, his hope, his wish. He runs for it, to it, away from the death that licks at his ankles.
He throws himself out of the window, twisting his body, pulling his hands about his face, protecting himself from the shattering glass. He falls three stories, gliding among the glass. He hits the ground, air rushing out of his body. The fiery death flows from the window above him. He lies beneath it, watching.
Lt. Malcolm Reed bleeds on the ground.
2.
He sleeps.
He lies in a bed, white sheets around him. He's pale. His fingers are spindly, frail, breakable. They're like twigs, ready to be snapped. His breathing is shallow, weak. There are stitches on his face; black strings gouged in white flesh.
There are beads of sweat upon his forehead. His mahogany hair is plastered on his skin. His body is being ravaged by fever.
He bites his bottom lip in his sleep. His head rolls. He is weak, broken, fallen.. His eyes twitch behind his eyelids.
He dreams.
Fragile hands fold in the white sheets. He holds the sheets. Pink lines and black stitches mar once beautiful hands. They were beautiful once; beautiful when his hands weren't thin and breakable, when they weren't tarnished by pink scars, black string, red blood, and white gauze.
Those who stand around him, watching, are reminded of glass. People think it's breakable. It's not. It's tough. You bend it and bend it, but it won't break. Eventually, it will but when it does the glass will bite back.
They're not sure he'll ever bite back again.
His head rolls to one side, lying against his shoulder. He breathes through his teeth, hissing. He's in pain. They don't know how to help him. All they can do is wait.
His longs hurt, burning. Fumes of fire had desolated him. They are charred and hurt and he can't breathe very well. Everything hurts him. He hurts. But he sleeps, so he really doesn't feel anything. It still hurts.
He still sleeps, never waking, just rolling his head side to side. He makes hissing noises when he breathes. His eyes twitch. His body burns.
Lt. Malcolm Reed dies silently in a white room.
3.
No one ever mentions he's gone.
It's like they have forgotten. It's like he was never there. It's like he never gave up his life to protect them. It's like they didn't even know he was ever around.
Some remember, the lessers. They remember on the anniversary. They get quiet around the quarters that were once his. The one who had moved in stays with a friend. They avoid the table where he would always it. They avoid the bed he once laid like the plague.
They remember when the others don't.
One remembers, though. One of the greaters. He sees it. He sees what they do. But he ignores it. It hurts too much. It hurts when he looks towards where he used to stand. It hurts when he sits at the table. It hurts when he wakes at night and wanders and no longer sees him.
It hurts the most, though, when he turns to his right, where he always did stand, and tries to talk. One day, he got out his name. Then he turned away and looked to his left and tried to pretend it didn't happen.
He thought once that someday the pain would go away. It hasn't.
Everyone thought the pain would go away, everyone who had served from the beginning. They've got friends that have never met him now. They've got so many things that he has never seen. They thought that time would heal their wounds.
Three years later, and some still wake and think of him. Some still look outside at the passing stars and planets and think how much he would love to see them. Some still think that he would have loved to blow that one asteroid up.
Others weren't even there. Others try not to remember. Others act like they don't remember.
It's been three years and it still hurts them, still pains them. It pains the lessers. The greaters act as though it never happened. They act as though he was never here. They hide behind happy masks and act like they don't recall. They pretend.
No one ever mentions Lt. Malcolm Reed is dead.
The End
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em.
Etc: This is my first Enterprise piece. Please be nice, or not. I don't care.
Feedback: Knock yourself out.
Death
1.
He runs.
Quickly, quickly, he whispers to himself. Keep going; don't falter. Run, run, he whispers. Never stop; don't quit. He can't let himself. To falter is to stop, to stop is to quit, to quit is to fail and to fail.to fail is to die.
He is not ready for death. He is too young; he has too much life ahead of him, too many mistakes that he must correct. He is not ready for death and, yet, death still pursues him.
It follows doggedly, personified in the rumbling behind him.
Not yet, not yet, he whispers, listening to the pounding of his own feet on the floor. But pounding it is not, for he runs quickly, swiftly, lightly; but pounding it is to his ears, though quieter than the rumbling.
Sounds of his own blood rushing behind his ears roar. You never acknowledge this noise until in times of peril yet it's always there, like a tiger silently stalking you. He wants it to stop, to forget it and let himself concentrate on his running from the rumbling.
He runs down the hall, arms pumping, feet slapping, legs straining, lungs burning. He runs to outrun death personified in the fire behind him.
Keep going, keep going, he whispers. Don't falter, don't stop, don't quit, he whispers. Not yet; not yet.
The rumbling explosion is gaining.
He runs, body moving, body straining. He wants to cry, to weep, to sob; he doesn't. He must run, run away from the flames of death that will consume him. Go, go, go, he whispers.
Then he sees it: the window, his hope, his wish. He runs for it, to it, away from the death that licks at his ankles.
He throws himself out of the window, twisting his body, pulling his hands about his face, protecting himself from the shattering glass. He falls three stories, gliding among the glass. He hits the ground, air rushing out of his body. The fiery death flows from the window above him. He lies beneath it, watching.
Lt. Malcolm Reed bleeds on the ground.
2.
He sleeps.
He lies in a bed, white sheets around him. He's pale. His fingers are spindly, frail, breakable. They're like twigs, ready to be snapped. His breathing is shallow, weak. There are stitches on his face; black strings gouged in white flesh.
There are beads of sweat upon his forehead. His mahogany hair is plastered on his skin. His body is being ravaged by fever.
He bites his bottom lip in his sleep. His head rolls. He is weak, broken, fallen.. His eyes twitch behind his eyelids.
He dreams.
Fragile hands fold in the white sheets. He holds the sheets. Pink lines and black stitches mar once beautiful hands. They were beautiful once; beautiful when his hands weren't thin and breakable, when they weren't tarnished by pink scars, black string, red blood, and white gauze.
Those who stand around him, watching, are reminded of glass. People think it's breakable. It's not. It's tough. You bend it and bend it, but it won't break. Eventually, it will but when it does the glass will bite back.
They're not sure he'll ever bite back again.
His head rolls to one side, lying against his shoulder. He breathes through his teeth, hissing. He's in pain. They don't know how to help him. All they can do is wait.
His longs hurt, burning. Fumes of fire had desolated him. They are charred and hurt and he can't breathe very well. Everything hurts him. He hurts. But he sleeps, so he really doesn't feel anything. It still hurts.
He still sleeps, never waking, just rolling his head side to side. He makes hissing noises when he breathes. His eyes twitch. His body burns.
Lt. Malcolm Reed dies silently in a white room.
3.
No one ever mentions he's gone.
It's like they have forgotten. It's like he was never there. It's like he never gave up his life to protect them. It's like they didn't even know he was ever around.
Some remember, the lessers. They remember on the anniversary. They get quiet around the quarters that were once his. The one who had moved in stays with a friend. They avoid the table where he would always it. They avoid the bed he once laid like the plague.
They remember when the others don't.
One remembers, though. One of the greaters. He sees it. He sees what they do. But he ignores it. It hurts too much. It hurts when he looks towards where he used to stand. It hurts when he sits at the table. It hurts when he wakes at night and wanders and no longer sees him.
It hurts the most, though, when he turns to his right, where he always did stand, and tries to talk. One day, he got out his name. Then he turned away and looked to his left and tried to pretend it didn't happen.
He thought once that someday the pain would go away. It hasn't.
Everyone thought the pain would go away, everyone who had served from the beginning. They've got friends that have never met him now. They've got so many things that he has never seen. They thought that time would heal their wounds.
Three years later, and some still wake and think of him. Some still look outside at the passing stars and planets and think how much he would love to see them. Some still think that he would have loved to blow that one asteroid up.
Others weren't even there. Others try not to remember. Others act like they don't remember.
It's been three years and it still hurts them, still pains them. It pains the lessers. The greaters act as though it never happened. They act as though he was never here. They hide behind happy masks and act like they don't recall. They pretend.
No one ever mentions Lt. Malcolm Reed is dead.
The End