06-13-2013, 05:32 AM
Sitting in a hospital, recovering, the only thing you can do is think.
It was funny really.
When he put his mind to it, the only real thing he could remember about
the great wave of hurt that crashed into his life, was how ironic it was.
Yeah, it came up out of nowhere, and yeah, it was always an occupational
hazard. But still, it was funny. The Connors family just couldnt stay in
the seat.
He could see himself as a boy, sitting at the kitchen table with dear old
dad, and the smell of cigarette smoke a choking cloud between them. Dad
often lamented that his own career as a fighter pilot had crashed and burned.
Then there was days spent with his uncle, who was now the goddamn president.
After Chris's dad had finally self-destructed on alcohol, his uncle Richard
had stepped in as a father figure - and the ironic part? he had a promissing
career as a pilot too. What happened? An engine malfunction plus bad ejection,
equals two years learning how to walk again, and an army of doctors telling
you how lucky you were, blah blah blah. He'd never fly again, and he never did.
And now, irony at its finest. The right jolt of energy to the wrong spot
on a Nyx, and it goes from a sleek space fighter into so much flaming ruin.
An ejection seat mixed with a bent canopy and your ramming your
spine into metal and polymer at speeds that are truly frightening. And so,
when you wake up, you hurt. All over. Except for the places you dont hurt,
dont feel a goddamn thing. Like everywhere below your waist.
It had to have been the moment he felt like laughing, with absolutely no mirth,
yet so scared of what it meant, hoping like hell sheer willpower could hold off reality.
Knowing it couldnt. And for the first time in a long time, he didn't hear his dead
fathers voice in his head. That voice which was the ghost of so many nights
sitting at the kitchen table, listening to what it meant to be a fighter pilot. From
his dad, a burnt out drunken relic, sitting in his underwear, with the choking smell
of cigarette smoke and booze.
That voice was gone, and Chris knew why. It was because he'd never be a pilot again.
It was funny really.
When he put his mind to it, the only real thing he could remember about
the great wave of hurt that crashed into his life, was how ironic it was.
Yeah, it came up out of nowhere, and yeah, it was always an occupational
hazard. But still, it was funny. The Connors family just couldnt stay in
the seat.
He could see himself as a boy, sitting at the kitchen table with dear old
dad, and the smell of cigarette smoke a choking cloud between them. Dad
often lamented that his own career as a fighter pilot had crashed and burned.
Then there was days spent with his uncle, who was now the goddamn president.
After Chris's dad had finally self-destructed on alcohol, his uncle Richard
had stepped in as a father figure - and the ironic part? he had a promissing
career as a pilot too. What happened? An engine malfunction plus bad ejection,
equals two years learning how to walk again, and an army of doctors telling
you how lucky you were, blah blah blah. He'd never fly again, and he never did.
And now, irony at its finest. The right jolt of energy to the wrong spot
on a Nyx, and it goes from a sleek space fighter into so much flaming ruin.
An ejection seat mixed with a bent canopy and your ramming your
spine into metal and polymer at speeds that are truly frightening. And so,
when you wake up, you hurt. All over. Except for the places you dont hurt,
dont feel a goddamn thing. Like everywhere below your waist.
It had to have been the moment he felt like laughing, with absolutely no mirth,
yet so scared of what it meant, hoping like hell sheer willpower could hold off reality.
Knowing it couldnt. And for the first time in a long time, he didn't hear his dead
fathers voice in his head. That voice which was the ghost of so many nights
sitting at the kitchen table, listening to what it meant to be a fighter pilot. From
his dad, a burnt out drunken relic, sitting in his underwear, with the choking smell
of cigarette smoke and booze.
That voice was gone, and Chris knew why. It was because he'd never be a pilot again.