There's nowhere left to hide
In no one to confide
The truth burns deep inside
And will never die
The worst thing is he has no idea what’s happening. Locked in a cell, he can only imagine and he doesn’t want to, because his mind keeps going back and actually the worst thing is that he knows she’s dying and there’s no air to breathe. He needs to be there. He can help. Only no one is listening.
His knees give and he sinks on to the hard chair. Blood covers his hands – her blood – and his eyes sting with guilt and grief. His history is littered with death and destruction, but nothing compares to having failed her so badly. She was his only hope, and that now lies bleeding somewhere he is not.
“I can help!” His screams echoes off the walls. His eyes seek out the camera and pride be damned, he cannot lose her. “Please,” he whispers. “Please let me help.”
Surprise flares when the door opens, but the man stood in the frame isn’t so much. Of course it would be Jackson – no one else can even begin to understand, or probably dare to hope that he’s telling the truth.
“Was it your fault?” the archaeologist asks, tone flat. But there is an accusation in those eyes and he looks away.
“I wasn’t there,” he admits and this is a hell of his own making. He deserves to burn. “I should have been. I should have known, but I thought… She didn’t need me.”
Jackson’s mouth is a tight line. Then he sighs and steps to one side. “She needs you now.”
Hope sparks and he stands. There are probably guns trained on him, but he isn’t aware of them. He hears nothing, sees nothing until he enters the infirmary and then… Then all he can hear is the strained chime of the life support as the doctor fights to keep her heart beating. All he can see is the blood and how pale she is.
He stands there, numb and horrified because he knows it was bad but this? This is more than bad and his hope dies at each wheezing breath. Pain jabs into his hands and he uncurls the fists, feels fresh blood on his palms. When he finally pushes himself to move, when he reaches the bed and stares down, her face is paler than pale and her lips are blue.
“I can’t stabilise her,” the doctor tells him, her low voice rough with fear. “If there’s anything that you can do, you need to do it now.”
They have a healing device and he fits it onto his hand. It hums with energy and he pours every emotion into willing her to live, to breathe, to open her eyes and smile at him, to offer him the salvation he knows isn’t deserved but needs so badly. Every thought, every breath, every beat of his heart is directed away, until he can no longer stand and drops, drained.
Jackson grabs him, but he doesn’t care about dying now. If he can buy her life with his own, then maybe he is worth something after all. She has no idea how much he loves her, but then he didn’t until she was bleeding to death in his arms, sliding the one thing that ever mattered to him out of his grasp.
“Is she…?” He cannot finish the sentence. Fear or lack of strength; because his ears are buzzing and it’s not the healing device, and the room is going grey. He hauls in a breath and whispers one word.
Then everything goes dark and he’ll never know.
Our wrongs remain unrectified
And our souls won't be exhumed