Chapter Thirty Five
23rd December
2320hrs
It was a familiar sound.
Comforting.
It bought back memories from a child hood long since past.
Children playing happily on the sand of a peaceful beach.
Before the war, before the Autobots and Decepticons and before the accident.
He often told people it was an illness, and oftentimes he'd tell himself that to try and get it to ingrain a little further into his psyche. The more he believed it, the more others would believe it when they brushed aside polite etiquette and asked.
Ratchet had probably know, a simple scan would have revealed the truth to optics trained in the art of medicine, sure, he was an Autobot doctor, but he had taken the best human literature regarding their biological forms and incorporated it into his data files – if only to assist with Spike and Sparkplug if they were injured.
Maybe Perceptor had. But that chap was a polite chap indeed and wouldn't invade the privacy of another being without permission. First Aid would have the same ethics but probably less desire to learn about the "cripple".
It was pretty simple, really.
His father was a drunk.
Embarrassing.
His father got worse after he lost his job.
No, the parents of Chip were not highly intelligent individuals. Not doctors nor lawyers nor some highly regarded Professor at some prestigious university.
His mother was quite nicely put, a whore, she'd sleep with whoever came her way, looking for the intimacy and love she obviously didn't get from her drunk of a husband. She turned to the bottle when she discovered she was pregnant with Chip's younger brother. That child was born into a world of darkness. Deaf. Blind. Mute. And with absolutely no indication that there was a mind inside that damaged skull.
Chip was 11 at the time. Old enough, and smart enough to know those horrific defects were caused by his mother's actions.
He had a sister of 15 and a brother of 8.
Both were fine and healthy, physically. He lost contact with his sister after he made contact with the Autobots. She'd left home when she was 16, shortly after the accident, if only to escape the abuse their father had doled out, particularly to her. You didn't need Chip's IQ to figure what that mongrel did to her for all those long years. His other brother… well… that was tragic. Chip, after being discharged from the re-hab ward went to live with his uncle and aunt. People who had always tried to pick up the pieces of his parents' debacle that was called a marriage.
At 7 the family would drive up to that small beach side house and several weeks during the summer break enjoying the waves and the wonderful feeling of community that such small towns oozed. Back when his dad's drinking wasn't so bad, back when he had a stable job stocking shelves at a large department store. The money wasn't good, but it put food on their small table. His mother worked as a secretary at the school where they attended. She wasn't that intelligent and was never any help with spelling or math homework, but she was diligent in her tasks. Of course, when her husband lost his job, it caused a great deal of stress. He couldn't quite recall the statistics behind marriages that ended in divorce, but one of the main reasons they ended was because of fiscal mishaps.
That sound, it comforted him.
The sound of die rolling around in a plastic cup.
The way they danced out and across the wooden planks of the porch or onto the blanket lay across the fine sand.
Farkle.
Games like chess, even monopoly, his siblings and even his parents wouldn't play these against him, he was too intelligent, to greatly gifted that such games would always put him at an advantage. But Farkle, that was based on luck, and no matter of intelligence, would ensure the right selection of numbers would roll out on the die.
Ones, fives, they were the ones you wanted, and a set of three or more, or a subsequent run. He'd only gotten a run once, but he'd never forget it. It was after a meal of cold meatloaf with hot gravy (his favourite combination), a good wad of peas and a scoop of mashed potatoes. He had a glass of warm juice in his hand. Wearing light brown shorts and a green top with a few holes here and there from his active antics. He had pushed his glasses up his nose and looked down as he rolled the die out across the wooden decking. The sea breeze had picked up and the salty smell was wrapping itself about them. It had just gone 7.30pm and the late sun was still giving them both warmth and light. At first he thought he was seeing something, until his sister confirmed it with a grown up word that their parents hadn't heard.
It was one of the best feelings of his life, which in retrospect was rather sad.
The accident happened on the way back from their holiday paradise a few years later. After the job loss, the adultery, the defective child, it was just what they'd need, their neighbour had said. Turns out the neighbour had been paid by their landlord to get them out and up to the beach so the landlord could evict them. Try and get your mind of Nikki, she'll come back, she'll be okay. You need to relax, I'm sure little Grant will be okay, he's only a baby, the doctors can't be sure about hearing at that stage, and babies can't read so he can't tell you he can't see! Get your marriage back on track, that'll help sort all this out, you'll see! Those catch phrases from their soft spoken neighbour, a woman of 70 odd and her husband who probably talked her into agreeing, a man of 74 who'd oftentimes had "words" with Chip's father regarding his late night returns.
They'd spent a few days up there. He went out, got drunk. Came back and argued with his wife over something minute. Chip hid away in his room with his two brothers, the young boy who'd escape soon and the baby who could never escape, or perhaps had already but had left his body there. The wife and husband agreed, the only thing they did, to get in the car and return home.
He was drunk. Drunker then usual and that corner coupled with his rage, intoxication and sudden light summer shower made that corner something that refused to yield itself to the vehicle. It roared off the road and plummeted down the steep embankment.
Chip's injuries were obvious. Fractures at T1, T2, T3, L1, L2, L4 and swelling around C1, C2. There were no complete severs of the spinal cord, but there were little nicks and scratches. The bones were pinned; he wore a brace and found himself in a wheelchair that he'd never be able to leave. The physio therapist had told him, along with the doctors and experienced nurses that while miracles happened, it was miracle enough he was alive. He would have some movement, some sensation, but how much they could not say, and whatever he did have wouldn't enable him to walk under his own power. Sad.
His brother died. He was never sure if it was at the scene or later in hospital or perhaps in transit. He could never be sure and he didn't really want to know.
His mother had died also, a violent end to a depressing life. In her rage, before the final argument, she'd undone her seat belt to reach across and slap her husband. Those actions ensured she would be flung from the car, shoulder first through the windscreen and then propelled into a tree where her head was crumpled into a mess similar to scrunched up tin foil.
The deaf, dumb, mute, brain damaged, foetal alcohol syndrome child survived. He too had injuries, two broken femurs, multiple rib fractures and an assortment of cuts and bruises. He didn't cry like normal babies. He didn't fidget like a normal child in pain. He lay in his cot unaware of the injuries grog and no-self control had inflicted on him. Had the doctors perhaps recognised the child's defects perhaps they would not have pushed to save him. After his discharge from hospital, it was too much to ask of his uncle and aunty to take him. He ended up in some institution and after some scandal which involved neglect and terrible abuse he was moved on and bumped about facilities. Chip had the opinion of himself that he had not been a good brother to little Grant, as he had not bothered to follow up. Chances are, with such deformity, he might have died.
And then there was his father.
That lousy bastard had survived, and with the exception of a broken wrist, he was perfectly fine. Something about drunks being relaxed that they would go limp in an accident and didn't have the speed of reflex to tense in preparation for an impact.
Of course he went to jail. He served time. But got out about two years later because he had "found God" and was no longer a "slave to the drink".
So when asked, Chip simply smiled and said "Oh, my dad, he's a doctor/lawyer/professor/businessman".
And as long as there were no invasive follow up questions, things went along smoothly. Spike didn't even know the truth.
As far as he was concerned, his uncle and aunty were his parents now.
Of course, he hadn't seen them in several years. His research and job and the Autobots and friends and cat and wheel chair tire polish just took up all his time. They'd understand of course. His uncle was a surgeon, albeit retired, and his aunty was still lecturing high school students about the Iliad and Red figure technique.
What a fucking mess.
He thought as those pleasant thoughts of pleasant summer games at pleasant holiday homes in pleasant towns drifted from his mind and replaced by the vodka soaked blood splattered car seats he found himself twisted around.
But there was no vodka here…
He was aware of another sound, the slow spinning of a car's wheel. The scratching of flora's dried ends on the paint of a dented car.
There was a smell.
It was of petrol and smoke and melting plastic and burning rubber.
Oh God. I'm going to die here.
He thought sadly as he tried to wriggle himself from his entrapment.
While pushing against the wheel he realised he was upside down, that there was a mess about his head. At first he thought it must have been vomit. It wasn't. Then perhaps it was blood? But at that amount, well, he'd be dead if it was that amount.
"Oh God! Water!"
He whimpered, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded as he realised the car had spun down to land upside down in a ditch which was filling slowly with water.
That's when his brain allowed his senses to get through to him that it was raining.
It wasn't that heavy rain that made you feel warm in your bed, or angry that you had to go out in it to get to your place of employ.
It was that rain that would trick you into thinking you didn't need an umbrella, the kind of rain that looked like wisps, that got you soaking wet if you weren't careful or quick to get to shelter. It was the kind of rain that could still cause enough to rise slowly in a ditch to drown you.
He was trapped. His legs would not have the power to push him free. He suddenly became aware that he had four limbs and two of them had rather unnatural strength. He had proven to Sparkplug, and thus earned his respect, when he had torn a floppy disk in half with his bare hands. The old vet tried, failed, then grumbled about what he could do "in his day". He moved his right arm, only to be alerted by a delicate series of nerves that his right arm was broken. A sense of dread crept into him as he slowly realised the screaming pain in his left shoulder was indicating to him a dislocation.
"I am going to die here".
He said it in such a way that it was meant to be reassuring, to tell himself the truth, for once, and that truth would set him free.
"I guess this is the part where I make myself right with God".
He sputtered. His voice seemed okay, though there was an unpleasant taste in his mouth. His stomach ached at him and his chest was starting to make its protests clear.
He'd never had any real religious instruction, despite what he had sometimes told others, and himself, he certainly didn't like to be seen as ignorant, even on matters such as religion. But truth be told, he didn't know much about that side of life, and he hadn't really bothered to learn since it didn't have a place in his. Yeah, he knew Jews were circumcised and had been the slaves of some Pharaoh, he knew that Jesus was a Jew and that Christians worshipped Jesus, he knew Hindus had a lot of gods and goddesses and that they had those red dots on their heads and that Apu was a Hindu, he knew Muslims believed that there was no god but Allah and Muhammad was his prophet, he didn't know much about Mormons or Wiccans or Buddhists and he really didn't know anything about Catholics or Anglicans.
And so Chip was trapped with only his internal monologue for company, a monologue that told him he didn't know anything about the thing in life that was probably most valuable to most when they lay dying.
Well, if whatever or whoever resided after death was merciful and loving, surely they'd understand the mind of a man who'd suffered through so much.
There it was. The light. The light at the end of the tunnel. Go towards the tunnel.
Chip.
They were calling his name.
CHIP!
He must go towards the light!
That meant he was going to Heaven, right, going towards the light! See, the god that so many worshiped or that none worshiped or were known or… well.. whoever… WHATEVER! He was going to Heaven!! Something up there loved him and knew him enough to let him into eternal bliss!
"Hang on Chip, I'll call for help, we'll get you out!"
Wait… Rodimus? No… I have to go towards the light.
Wait… did I say that…
"Rod…i…mus?"
"Yeah, kid, its me".
Chip groaned.
"Well, sor-reeeeeeee".
Chip closed his eyes and was aware of the throbbing within his skull, just behind his forehead. His glasses had fallen off. His breathing slowed and he was aware of the taste of blood in the back of his throat.
"Chip, man, you gotta stay with me. Okay? You need to hang on. First Aid is coming, and you know how fast that guy goes when someone's in trouble".
"Ye..ah".
In what he would later claim was a result of his delusional state, he saw the figure, standing over him, slowing rotating his hand, the sound that had bought him comfort and took him back to happier times was now going to be forever associated with these moments. The die were rolled and they skipped in front of his field of vision until they stopped. But there were no series of dots that equalled a number, instead, on the six die were small skulls and all of them emitted tiny die sized laughs at him.
You're going to die, Chip Chase, you're going to die.
"Rodimus… roll the die again… FARKLE!"
He slipped into a sleep he'd later wake.
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Author's NB: I am so addicted to Farkle right now. Go Facebook applications!! Anyway, I had to get Rodimus to find Chip and I thought it'd be boring if it was just a page of Rodimus driving and a page of Chip lying comaed in an over turned car.