Connor Wilkins stared at the back of the clock. Even though the room was dark, Connor had been awake for so long that his vision had acclimated to the point where he could see the outline of the clock perfectly. A soft red glow coming from the clock lit up the corner of the room that was slowly being etched into Connor’s brain with every tired blink.
“Goddamnit!” the word was absorbed by the darkness. It didn’t echo. It didn’t hang in the air. It was out and then gone. The pain wasn’t though.
White-hot pain lanced up Connor’s leg tracing a path as lightning did coming down from the sky. It went from his foot, through ankle and meaty calf up to his knee. It was there that it boiled up for a moment and careened upwards causing his leg to jerk involuntarily. It was trying to escape the pain that was lacing through it.
The lyrica wasn’t working. Connor had already downed a cocktail comprised of lorazepam, hydrocodone, aspirin and benedryl. A steady pattern of ache filled Connor’s eyes from the lack of sleep. Connor could deal with that ache; it was the randomness of the neuropathy that was really starting to seep into his sanity.
Within the last three months Connor had quit smoking, been pricked, prodded and drained of blood, told he needed to lose 80 pounds and told he was diabetic. On top of all of that, the one piece of solid happiness that Conner needed had been taken from him. The cat was dead.
Belle had run out into the road and found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Connor scowled at the red-tinged darkness. The hurt welled up deep inside when he thought of Belle. She seemed to always know when Connor was hurting and was just there so he could focus on stroking her fur rather than feeling the hopelessness that was surrounding him.
Pain jolted Connor’s again causing his leg to jump out from underneath the covers. Lost in the red-rimmed darkness Connor felt all of it at once. The creeping itch of a remembered addiction passed in Connor’s mind. He could almost taste the cigarette. He wanted it so badly. He wanted to not have diabetes. He wanted to get to sleep. He wanted the drugs to kick in. He wanted his mind to stop racing around in the darkness.
More than anything else, Connor wanted Belle.
He remembered Belle’s small footsteps padding up the other side of the bed. Connor looked over half expecting to still see her. He could still feel the bed moving as if she were coming to him. He found it comforting when Belle slept with him. It made everything just a little bit better.
Connor could still feel Belle coming to him. A raspy tongue licked his nose. In the midway between the pain of reality and the rapture of the dream-time, Connor heard Belle’s purring and finally slipped into unconsciousness.
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