2014
"Mom..."
In a fog, Connor barely recognized his own voice. It was harsh, croaking, and weak.
"Connor, baby, I'm here," she said. "I'm right here."
"Connor, can you hear us? Do you know where you are?"
Connor knew that voice. "Da... Dad..."
"Yes, it's me. Connor, we're here."
"Wh... where... where are..." Each word was a struggle, and Connor was losing the struggle. The sentence lay unfinished as Connor slipped back into unconsciousness.
His mother was not letting go so quickly. "Connor. Connor!"
"He's asleep." The stranger's voice belonged to a tall, wiry man in a long white coat. "He's out of the coma, but he's asleep." The wiry man checked a monitor, adjusted a dial, and peered over his reading glasses at a thick file of papers. "He's going to need time for the anesthesia to wear off. He may float in and out for the next few hours. But he's reached consciousness and he recognized your voices. That's an extremely good sign."
"Doctor..." his father began, and then stopped. "I don't know what we should do. What can we do?"
"For the moment, let him sleep. I know it's very trying on your patience, but I think the worst is over. We had to induce a coma to work on his injuries and he appears to be coming out of it. It will take some time for his body to purge the anesthesia. He'll probably be pretty confused as to where he is. And we don't yet know how much he'll remember. Memory is a funny thing. He may or may not remember the accident. He may not even remember the moments immediately beforehand. That's unpredictable, we'll just have to wait and see. But the fact that he woke up, however briefly, and immediately recognized your voices is very very positive."
Connor's mother sat in a guest chair at his bedside and wept quietly, absorbing the doctor's words. His father perched behind her, with his arms protectively over her shoulders. His face was a mask of anguished worry. "I almost hope that he doesn't remember. I'd like him spared those memories," his father said in a low whisper, his voice breaking with a mix of fear and relief.
"The most important thing you can do," the doctor said gently, "is to be there when he wakes up and help him understand where he is and what happened." He turned to leave the room but stopped short. "I wouldn't bother him too much with what's to come. He will need significant rehabilitation. Let him worry about that later."
"Doctor, what will he be able to do? Will he be able to play sports again, will he even be able to walk again?" his mother asked, pleadingly.
The doctor sighed. "The neurology tests all came back normal. He has sensation and muscle control in his arms and legs. It's really a matter of the bones and muscles healing. He's young, which will help a lot. His body will repair itself relatively quickly. I don't see any reason why he would not be able to walk again. Sports I would say are a matter of degree. As long as he can walk and run, I think he could play for fun. Whether he will regain the strength to play competitively? Honestly, that's up to him. He might be able, with a lot of hard work, to do that. But let's start at the start." He laid his hand over Connor's mother's hand sympathetically. "How much physical ability he'll recover is tomorrow's challenge. Today, he's conscious and soon he'll be awake. You have your son."
Connor's mother shuddered with emotion and began to cry. His father embraced her shoulders to give her strength. "Thank God for that," he said.
************************
In Connor's world, it was night. He could barely see where he was, but he knew he was in a street somewhere. An alley. A streetlight cast a dim light on the ground. Connor stumbled past dumpsters and cans toward a door. He pushed on the door and found himself in a dark room. He needed to find the light switch. He could not explain why but for some reason he knew it was important. He looked into the dark searching for any sign of a light switch. "I need light," he whispered. "I need..."
Suddenly the world was blindingly bright.
"...light." The word was muttered, barely intelligible, soft as a whisper.
His mother jumped to her feet. "Connor," she said, "what was that, baby?"
Connor's father, at the window, spun and returned to the bedside. "Connor, I heard you, but didn't understand. What did you say?"
Connor tried to formulate the word again. His eyes were pinched shut against the intensity of it and he finally managed to croak out the word again: "light."
"He said light. Connor, what about the light?" his father asked.
After a pause, he spoke. "Too damn much."
His father jumped up and snapped off the examination light above Connor's head, and then turned and drew the blinds. The room was plunged into gloom.
"Better," Connor grunted.
"Son, do you know where you are?"
"Bed?"
The answer caught his parents off guard. "Well, yes, bed," said his father. "But do you know where the bed is?"
The fog was starting to clear from his brain and his eyes were getting adjusted to the lower light in the room. Connor weakly opened his eyes and looked around.
"What th' fuck?" he stumbled out. "Hospital. Why'm ina hospital?"
He never got the answer to his question, for three seconds later he was sound asleep again.
*********************
Over the next 24 hours, Connor slowly resurfaced three or four times. By the fourth time, has was able to stay conscious and awake. His parents finally answered his question, and many more. They told him that he'd been in a car accident. That the other driver had been drunk and that it wasn't Connor's fault. They were able to break the dire news that he had suffered multiple fractures and had pins in his right leg holding together the bone. That he'd been under sedation for almost three days to keep him motionless while his body had a chance to heal. And that he would have to go through rehabilitation to walk again.
"I don't remember an accident," he said. "I don't even remember driving."
"You were driving," his father said, "but Connor, son, I want you to know, it was not at all your fault. Police cameras recorded the whole thing. You were in the right and the other driver just came out of nowhere. It's not your fault."
"Ok, ok," he said. "Not my fault. Dad, I got it. What happened to the other driver?"
"He was injured, but not badly. He's been arrested."
"Where was I driving, Dad?"
His father paused. "Well, it's not important, but you were...headed home."
Connor chewed on that. "Oh, ok. Home. So I was headed home and...wait, Dad, that's not right." His father felt a pang of panic. "I wasn't headed home. I was...I was heading to the mall. To the movies."
"Connor, never mind. It doesn't matter," his father said, urgency creeping into his voice. "Just remember, it wasn't your fault."
"I was going to the movies. I was on Lakeview. But why was I on Lakeview? That's not near us."
"Connor..." the fear in his father's voice was palpable.
"Lakeview is over near... um, near... Aidan's house." He paused, trying to put together the jumbled puzzle in his head. "Aidan's..."
"I was with Aidan."
Fear gripped Connor's heart as it rose into his throat and forced his next words out in a shout.
"Dad, where's Aidan?"
"Connor..."
He was screaming. "Dad! Where is Aidan!?"
***********************************
Connor sat sullenly in the rehab room. His wheelchair was pulled up to a table near the window, but he couldn't stand the view. Scattered on the table in front of him were 500 pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that portrayed a coastal lighthouse. The puzzle was supposed to help him exercise his hands and rebuild his fine motor skills. Connor could not possibly have cared less.
Over the course of a week, his memory returned in fits and starts. Pieces coalesced into threads and threads into narratives. And each new memory plunged him into a fit of crying and rage.
He remembered making out on the couch, moving to the bedroom, and their first time in each others' arms.
He remembered taking Aidan inside him, and being inside Aidan.
He remembered the long lingering kiss he had shared at the end.
He remembered how it had aroused them again, leading to another round of passionate sex.
He remembered Aidan cumming in his mouth and how strangely sweet and bitter his semen tasted.
He remembered Aidan laying on his back, legs in the air, looking up at him as Connor entered him again and slid deep inside him.
He remembered unloading inside Aidan for the second time, and hearing him teasing in a soft, singsong voice, "my boyfriend just fucked me, my boyfriend just fucked me..."
He remembered leaning up, still buried deep inside Aidan, and putting a finger on his lips, shushing him. And then saying, gently, "Aidan. Your boyfriend..."
He remembered pausing while tears welled up in Aidan's eyes at hearing Connor finally use the word.
He remembered finishing the sentence. "Your boyfriend did not just fuck you. Your boyfriend just made love to you."
He remembered how Aidan had cried, and then how they had laughed. And then how he had panicked when they saw the clock.
"Dude, we need to get dressed if we're gonna make the movie," Aidan said.
"Ok, ok. Let's move it."
They flew from the house and jumped into Connor's car. Halfway down the block, Aidan was giving him shit for driving like an old lady. "Jeez, Connor, I don't mean you should drive like NASCAR, but at this rate, we'll be lucky to make the midnight showing."
"Zip it, Aid. I don't drive crazy. We'll get there. I already have the tickets and at worst we'll miss 20 minutes of crap trailers."
"Ok, ok, pops. I'm gonna call you 'pops' from now on whenever you're driving."
Connor gave him the middle finger. "You gonna call me that in bed?" he joked.
"Oh, no, baby...in bed, I'll just be screaming your name," he said as they broke into laughter.
Those were the last words Connor heard from Aidan.
They were also Aidan's last words.
The car that struck them hit the passenger door and killed him on impact. Aidan never knew what happened.
************************
"Connor."
Connor ignored his name.
"Connor," a soft female voice repeated.
He turned and saw the psychologist who had been trying to get him to participate in rehab. He rolled his eyes and looked away, back out the window. "What?"
"You need to make an effort to do the exercises that the therapists have programmed for you. You're not making as much progress as you could."
"What's the point? I killed my best friend."
She stifled a sigh. Connor Kelly was pretty deep in depression from his accident.
"No, Connor, you didn't."
