Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I don't have any money. I don't even have a job.
A/N: The quote is by Dante.
When life hands you lemons, you make the smell of a decomposing body disappear. It was sad that she would know such a thing. While normal people walk into the produce section of any given supermarket, picking up one or two of the small, yellow pieces of fruit, she grabs a bundle. The cashiers ring up her purchase, silently assuming she's making a pie from scratch, a giant pitcher of tea, perhaps. She merely smiles, letting them believe what they want.
She wishes she were at the market, the bank, the dreaded gynecologist. Anywhere but the hard, unforgiving desert.
At night, with the soft glow of the moon as her companion, she thought about death. Morbidly, she entertained the notion that her teammates wouldn't need as many lemons. She was, after all, in wide open space.
She remembered the rain as it fell onto her outstretched right arm and how ironic it was that it would rain at that given moment. The stubborn, unrelenting streaks of precipitation had finally reached the surface, pushing their way through the dry air. Steadily, the drops had fallen, creating a puddle around her arm. She'd tried to drag the watery mixture of mud and rainfall toward her body in hopes that she would have something to drink.
The groggy, hazy feeling had receded, leaving her more alert and able to catalogue her injuries. Her left arm was pinned under her thigh; how it got there she wasn't sure. She'd managed a few sips of the gritty water before her stomach relinquished its contents. She then realized the pounding in her head and the accompanying nausea meant one thing. Concussion.
A sharp pain in her side made it impossible to focus on anything but her broken ribs and how, with the slightest movement (as if that were possible), fragments of bone could pierce a lung. What an awful way to go, struggling to breathe until she could no longer feed her starved body with much-needed oxygen. At least she would pass out first.
She couldn't afford to lose the battle of consciousness, though. She needed to fight, to live. For him, because he could not survive without her. Dying of a broken heart never rang more true.
She remembered the first time he told her she would be the death of him. They had gotten the most expensive suite at the Bellagio for one night. They'd turned their phones off and spent the night making love, memories, and, hopefully, babies. Upon waking the next morning, he'd looked into her eyes and with tears clouding his vision uttered the most tender quotation she'd ever heard.
There is no greater sorrow than to recall in misery the time when we were happy.
He'd explained that he fully expected her to outlive him, but that if the time ever came that he didn't, he'd never make it, would never be happy again. It would mean moving on, accepting something unacceptable.
He would risk life and limb to find her, she just knew it. She hung on, musing of their time spent together and how much she wanted the ordeal to be over. She wanted to sleep in her own bed, not on the hard, cracked desert floor.
She wanted gentle arms wrapped around her as she slept, instead of the hard metal pressing into her back.
She wanted his whispers in her ear as he woke her from a deep sleep just to share one more dream he had of their future. She heard no words in the silence of her surroundings.
Tears sprang to her eyes and she allowed herself one small moment of weakness, because, after all, she was a woman. She was prone to bouts of anger and compassion. She could cry at the drop of a hat one minute and rant at the top of her lungs the next. The totality of her emotions, he'd said, was what he loved about her the most.
As the sun went down yet again, her thoughts turned dark and foreboding. She was becoming far too weak for her body to sustain another day. She hoped he'd know how hard she fought, how she tried to stick it out.
As she slipped through the tendrils of awareness, she felt the ground vibrate beneath her, followed by the familiar sounds of footsteps.
She flinched as something grabbed her hand. In her weary, pain-inflicted state she struggled to grasp the meaning of words spoken in the general direction of her head. She tried to form a response, although she wasn't sure what the question was.
She pried her heavy lids apart in an effort to concentrate on what was being said. Her name was repeated, and she licked her lips, preparing herself to speak. Clearing her throat, she uttered his name. It was smooth as silk, effortlessly flowing, reaching out of the overturned car until it reached his hopeful ears.
He confirmed her suspicion, promising to get her out as soon as possible in a pleading tone, begging her to live.
More footsteps, increasing until they gathered around her.
An engine idled nearby. Slowly, the weight lifted, allowing her to see him.
As the medical personnel readied her for transfer to an awaiting ambulance, she held his hand.
She never took her eyes off his face, letting it ground her, calm her, sooth her.
As the doors closed, she let the tears fall, this time of relief. They'd been given a second chance.
Soft fingertips brushed aside damp locks of hair matted to her forehead, clearing a space for his delicate lips to touch dust-encrusted skin.
She smiled as she drifted off to sleep. She felt his gentle embrace, heard his whisper as he told her of all the things they would do once she was released from the hospital.
There would be no misery for them, no sorrow. There would be happiness in knowing they had more time.