Okay, fair warning, this one's a little bit darker - I guess - than what I usually write. I mean, I tend to write depressing stuff anyway, coz apparently it's my thing, but this is a little bit more real than usual.
So, there's been a lot of advertising on TV here lately for raising awareness for MND, Motor Neurone Disease (or ALS), and this little bit popped into my head. I can't put into words how horrible this disease is, and I can't even imagine having it, or even knowing somebody who has it. I just want to say that I don't mean to offend or upset anyone with this story. I just had to write it, though, I couldn't get it out of my head. Be aware this story also deals with assisted suicide.
Disclaimer: I do not own G.I Joe. Also, all mistakes are my own.
It was hard to open his eyes. He didn't want to wake up; he wanted to sleep, to dream. Anything to avoid coming back to this hell.
He could still walk in his dreams. He could still run. Still speak. Eat. Fight. Hold a gun…or a woman.
He'd been holding her in his dream, reliving the moment they'd first kissed, in an apartment the night before she was due to go undercover. Her hair had been dyed black, with purple and green streaks. He could still taste her, still smell her shampoo, still feel her body pressed against his as he backed her up against the kitchen counter.
But the dream was already gone, just like she was. Dead.
He wished he was dead, too. He may as well be; he was a shell, trapped in his own failing body, not even able to take a piss by himself. It was pathetic. Humiliating.
This wasn't how it was supposed to end.
It started with the stumbling. He hadn't thought anything of it at first; he'd assumed he was just tired. But it hadn't gone away, no matter how much sleep he got.
He went to see Doc once the cramps started. Doc did the usual physicals…then sent him to a neurologist, who ran more tests - lots of them. Blood tests, nerve studies, electromyography - sticking needles into his muscles, measuring muscular activity - until he finally had an answer.
He knew it was bad as soon as he saw Doc's face. He braced himself - he didn't know what for. Cancer, maybe. He could fight that…or at least, he could damn well try.
But it wasn't cancer.
It was ALS. Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.
In short, according to Doc, his nerve cells were going to die off until his muscles weakened so much that he couldn't move, speak, eat…or, if he lasted that long, breathe.
No cure. The disease was terminal.
Doc gave him two years.
He tried to keep it under wraps. He didn't want the pity, the stares, the hushed whispers, the uncomfortable conversations. Of course, he had to tell Hawk. The general understood, but made it perfectly clear that once the disease started affecting his work, he had to stop.
Granted - living in the Pit - it was difficult to keep it a secret, but he managed. For a little while, at least. He was moodier than usual, snappier with the new recruits, short with the other Joes - he figured he was allowed that much. The Joes who knew him best noticed - Scarlett, Flint, Stalker. He told them it was stress and took a couple weeks leave. It had actually been nice to get away, to think things over.
To come to terms with it all.
He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Might as well get on with life while he could.
He decided to come clean after a few months. He couldn't keep it from them anymore. He'd lost weight astonishingly quickly. His metabolism went haywire, and yet he'd lost his appetite. He was so fatigued, he couldn't train properly. He was taking on more and more desk jobs, rather than leading teams out in the field. The Joes noticed.
He hated it. He hadn't signed up to be a desk jockey. Still…it was better than giving up. This way, he could still be a part of it. He could still be with his team.
And it hadn't been that bad telling them, after all.
He started slurring his words by the end of the first year, as his nerves died and his muscles degraded, and then it all went to hell. His legs gave out next, then his arms. Now, nearing the end of the second year, he could barely move at all. Couldn't speak. His body, once so strong, had wasted away. It was getting hard to breathe on his own. Sometimes he was in so much pain he lay awake all night.
But the worst part was that he was still…here. His senses, his mind - they were all just as sharp as they'd ever been.
It was worse than any cell he'd been in before.
The door to his private room opened. He glanced up eagerly, glad for the distraction.
"Hey, Duke," the redhead said, smiling at him.
Late, Scarlett. Where've you been?
"Sorry I'm late. Got stuck in traffic," she said, leaning down to give him a quick peck on the cheek. He closed his eyes at her touch. It was the only thing he could do to show her how much it meant; he couldn't even smile at her.
Scarlett sat on the edge of his bed where he could see her, holding his hand as she told him the news; what was going on at the Pit, how his buddies were going. His eyes never left her face. This was his favourite part of the day. He missed it so much - he'd lived for his job. He'd loved his job, hard though it had been.
"They all send their love," she finished.
Tell 'em I love them, too.
Scarlett fell silent. After a few minutes, she suddenly squeezed his hand tighter. "Duke…there's something…I have to ask you something."
He looked at her, and blinked once, slowly and deliberately. It was the only way he could speak to her - one blink for yes, two for no.
"I…I've been thinking about this for a while…I just didn't know how to bring it up," the redhead said quietly. "I know…god, I know you hate this. I can't even imagine…but I know that this isn't what you want."
Understatement of the year, Red.
"Conrad…" Scarlett took a deep breath. "Do you…do you want it to end?"
His blue eyes met hers. Was she asking what he thought she was asking?
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small bottle. The contents rattled as she turned it to show him the label. "Nomad's sleeping pills," she explained softly. "It's all I could get. It's alright, she doesn't know. I could crush up a couple, put them in your IV…" Her voice cracked. "Once you were asleep, I could…" She gestured hopelessly to the life support machines. "But…I need you to tell me. You know the drill. Blink once for yes. Twice for no."
Duke looked at her. He didn't even need to think about it.
He blinked once.
"That's it." Scarlett's voice was shaky. "It…it's done."
Duke felt her warmth as she lay beside him, wrapping her arms around him. He sighed, mostly in relief.
But he was a little bit scared, too.
"It's gonna be okay," Scarlett whispered, turning his head so he could look at her. Tears shone in her eyes. "Whatever pain you're in, it's going away now. And you're gonna be okay. She'll be waiting for you."
His eyelids were growing heavy. The painkillers were starting to kick in.
Scarlett kissed him. He felt her lips, soft against his.
Shana…thankyou.
He closed his eyes.
…Mel…I'm on my way…