Curt had always been right. No matter how many times Dickie thought he lied or had miscalculated, that was never the case. His intuition- no- his gut feelings were never wrong.
It was the same case then. In the heat of the moment.Â
âIâm gonna get you down safely Dickie!â He slurred over the loud rattle of the plane.Â
Dickie, bloody and hot, could hardly comprehend what he was saying. A seashell phenomenon was ringing in his ears, the sound of his blood rushing and pumping resounding so clearly. He turned his blurry gaze sideways. He could make out muffled voices, sounding distant.
Curt hadnât left yet. Dickie wasnât sure why. The plane was hurdling downwards.Â
ââŠSee that long green field?â Curt asked, leaning over slightly, patting Dickie gently.Â
The blood felt warm and his head felt dizzy. He couldnât muster any words of protest. I just wanna sleep, Curt. You should leave, Curt.
Not a single word. Biddick was wrong for once. Dickie knew it. He stared hard, lethargically, as the ground drew closer and the vision of death became clearer.
Please leave Curt. Please go.Â
Curt stayed with him. Dickie, blurred as his vision was, would sense something was wrong.Â
Curt was never wrong. Dickie stared up at the blue sky, marbled by how strong of a pigment it had. His back spasmed painfully. He could hardly move.Â
His head rolled to the side, just enough that he could see Curt. He hadnât spoken in a while.Â
Deformed. Like a mangled angel. Dickie wanted to wipe the blood off of his brow and shake him awake, but he could even wipe his own ass.
Please wake up. Please wake up.Â
Dickie felt a pair of hands, weak and shaking, grip him by the collar and begin dragging him out of the plane. Down the hall. Through the open bunker door.Â
âChrist- Christ- Christââ
The explosion was quick and painless. Dickie closed his eyes and refused to open them. He couldnât hear anything anymore. His brain, on autopilot, played a sound to soothe him. An accent, of course. The last words he could make out.Â
âIâm gonna get you down safely, Dickie!â
Curt was an idiot⊠but he was right. He had gotten him down safely; somewhat safely, anyway. Dickie coughed up a heap of blood.
âCome on Dick, donât die on me just yet,â said the unfamiliar voice. Dickie had the sense that he should know this person. He should be able to open his eyes and recognize him, but he couldnât bring himself to.
Another chest-heaving amount of blood. He wondered, angrily to himself, why he was still alive. He would question that a lot. Guilty for bleeding out on some oppressed familyâs guest bed, he wracked his brain for reasons why he had lived but his friend had not.Â
At night, when there was nothing but his blood tingling his ears and the deafening sound of silence, he could hear Curtâs thick accent in his head. Over and over, repeating the same phrase that he last remembered. Iâm gonna get you down safely, Dickie!
Curt wasnât religious, and neither was he, but Dickie couldnât help but hope, and pray, that they would somehow see each other again. He wished the pain in his back and neck would go away. He wished he hadnât survived the freak accident that was supposed to kill him. He wished Curt had been wrong for once. If only he had died right then and there, and Biddick had failed to get him down safely.Â
He managed to roll his head to the side. Curt was right there beside him. He wasnât mangled and battered anymore⊠just peaceful. Perfect.Â
Dickie closed his eyes again. He never opened them again.Â
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