He struggled fruitlessly in Flak’s grip for a while before the fury vanished as suddenly as it had come; only when he had gone limp did Flak let go of Shrapnel again and, with an expressionless face, began to put the table and chairs back into place. Only when that was done did they realise that Cathy was standing in the doorway to her room, eyes wide and lips trembling.
“Oh god…” Shrapnel ran both hands through his hair. “Sweetie, I…” “What’s happening?” Aged fifteen, she was old enough to understand that something dreadful had been happening, and all three of them knew that she had to know it, too. “Cathy”, Sandy began, fighting for composure, and held out her arm. The girl hurried over and let her mother embrace her. “I’m sorry. We’ve got some bad news.” “Has someone died?” “Not yet, sweetie.” Shrapnel cleared his throat. “But it’s… it’s me. I’m ill. Terminally. Preston said there’s nothing he can do. I’m… I’m afraid I’m going to die soon, Cathy.” She stared at him, her eyes widening even more. “But daddy… You can’t… there must be something! There must!” She tore herself out of her mother’s arm and threw herself at him. His face pale, Shrapnel closed her arms around her and held her close as she wept into his chest. “Daddy you can’t die! Please, you can’t die!” “I’m sorry, sweetie.” Shrapnel could feel his voice threatening to break. “I wouldn’t hurt you like that if I had a choice.”
He lowered his face into her crown and patted her back, and Sandy now leaned against Flak who closed his arms around her. She was bravely fighting for control over her feelings in front of her girl, but in the end, she failed. Flak buried his hand into her hair and looked up at his friend, their eyes meeting in bleak and hopeless despair.
Sandy had come to Harkness the very next day to tell him and ask for time off, for an indefinite time span. She had been working as a security guard for a few years, ever since Cathy had been old enough to be looked after by her fathers, and had been happy with her choice and very competent to boot. Upon hearing her story, Harkness had immediately cancelled all her shifts he had already put down on the roster, wishing even then that there would be something better he could have done for her.
They hadn’t kept it a secret, which would have been futile anyway. It soon had become clear to anyone who cared to look that something had been wrong with Shrapnel. He had walked like a man two times his age, and he had constantly been short of breath. But he had fought. He had fought with the determination of a damned man. Harkness was sure that if it had been just the two of them still, him and Flak, he’d have eaten his gun after a night full of booze and be done with it. But he hadn’t. For the sake of his girls, he had fought. He had followed Preston’s every order to the letter, had stopped smoking, had stopped drinking, but in the end, just as predicted, all he had been able to achieve was to buy a little more time. It had gone downhill quite fast after the first one and a half years, and sheer force of will had been the only thing that had made him hold on until Cathy’s seventeenth birthday.
He hadn’t been able to leave the bed by then, and everyone knew that it was going to be over soon.
A few days later Flak had carried him to the clinic because he had hardly been able to breathe. Preston had sent for Cathy then, and the messenger had found her just as she was having a chat with Harkness while keeping things running in the marketplace. She had grown up in the place and had been helping her fathers in running the stall ever since she had been old enough to grasp the difference between a magazine and a clip, and at that time there had been little she hadn’t known about guns and ammo.
Harkness had offered to come with her, which she had thankfully accepted, and Angela, being her godmother, had come along as well, to offer what help and comfort she could.
Entering the clinic, everyone looking at Shrapnel had known beyond doubt that the only reason Cathy had been called was to enable her to say farewell. He had looked like a dead man already, had been labouring and fighting for every painful draw of breath.
Stronger than death itself 3b/?
“Oh god…” Shrapnel ran both hands through his hair. “Sweetie, I…”
“What’s happening?” Aged fifteen, she was old enough to understand that something dreadful had been happening, and all three of them knew that she had to know it, too.
“Cathy”, Sandy began, fighting for composure, and held out her arm. The girl hurried over and let her mother embrace her. “I’m sorry. We’ve got some bad news.”
“Has someone died?”
“Not yet, sweetie.” Shrapnel cleared his throat. “But it’s… it’s me. I’m ill. Terminally. Preston said there’s nothing he can do. I’m… I’m afraid I’m going to die soon, Cathy.”
She stared at him, her eyes widening even more. “But daddy… You can’t… there must be something! There must!”
She tore herself out of her mother’s arm and threw herself at him. His face pale, Shrapnel closed her arms around her and held her close as she wept into his chest. “Daddy you can’t die! Please, you can’t die!”
“I’m sorry, sweetie.” Shrapnel could feel his voice threatening to break. “I wouldn’t hurt you like that if I had a choice.”
He lowered his face into her crown and patted her back, and Sandy now leaned against Flak who closed his arms around her. She was bravely fighting for control over her feelings in front of her girl, but in the end, she failed. Flak buried his hand into her hair and looked up at his friend, their eyes meeting in bleak and hopeless despair.
Sandy had come to Harkness the very next day to tell him and ask for time off, for an indefinite time span. She had been working as a security guard for a few years, ever since Cathy had been old enough to be looked after by her fathers, and had been happy with her choice and very competent to boot. Upon hearing her story, Harkness had immediately cancelled all her shifts he had already put down on the roster, wishing even then that there would be something better he could have done for her.
They hadn’t kept it a secret, which would have been futile anyway. It soon had become clear to anyone who cared to look that something had been wrong with Shrapnel. He had walked like a man two times his age, and he had constantly been short of breath.
But he had fought. He had fought with the determination of a damned man. Harkness was sure that if it had been just the two of them still, him and Flak, he’d have eaten his gun after a night full of booze and be done with it. But he hadn’t. For the sake of his girls, he had fought. He had followed Preston’s every order to the letter, had stopped smoking, had stopped drinking, but in the end, just as predicted, all he had been able to achieve was to buy a little more time. It had gone downhill quite fast after the first one and a half years, and sheer force of will had been the only thing that had made him hold on until Cathy’s seventeenth birthday.
He hadn’t been able to leave the bed by then, and everyone knew that it was going to be over soon.
A few days later Flak had carried him to the clinic because he had hardly been able to breathe. Preston had sent for Cathy then, and the messenger had found her just as she was having a chat with Harkness while keeping things running in the marketplace. She had grown up in the place and had been helping her fathers in running the stall ever since she had been old enough to grasp the difference between a magazine and a clip, and at that time there had been little she hadn’t known about guns and ammo.
Harkness had offered to come with her, which she had thankfully accepted, and Angela, being her godmother, had come along as well, to offer what help and comfort she could.
Entering the clinic, everyone looking at Shrapnel had known beyond doubt that the only reason Cathy had been called was to enable her to say farewell.
He had looked like a dead man already, had been labouring and fighting for every painful draw of breath.