“Wuh?” Chris didn’t know if he meant what or why, and it really didn’t matter. His eyes skidded, as slippery as oiled ball bearings in his sockets. If he could just hold on … Dark, so dark, like my chest … not right. “Ha … uhh,” he grunted. Had she left him? Was she gone? Why was it so dark? “What—”
But whatever he meant to say next simply fizzed to nothing on his tongue as he realized: it was dark because he was completely blind.
Can’t see … and he was drifting now, the world dissolving, his mind—that buoyant balloon—sailing into air that was too thin … can’t breathe, can’t—
“Hannah.” He felt a surge of sudden strength born of panic. “Hannah, b-blind …”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Her voice, as transparent and fragile as a soap bubble: “Let go, Chris. Stop fighting it. Let it go.”
“N-no.” The cold was a boot on his back, a fist on his chest, a hand draped over his eyes. Can’t see, can’t move, can’t … “Wuh … why …”
“Shh,” she said. “I’m sorry, Chris, but there’s nothing we can do for you. You’re hurt too badly. This is better, Chris. Trust me. It’ll go easier if you stop fighting.”
But what if he wanted to fight? I don’t want to die, I’m not ready, I’m not … “Nooo,” he moaned. “Don’t.”
“Shh,” she said again, but now her voice was no more than a sliver, a waning crescent of sound. “Don’t fight it, Chris. Accept this and let go. I’ll stay with you until the end. You won’t be alone.”
No. But he couldn’t stop this. His mind was drifting away, higher and higher, the margins of his world closing down like an iris. No … don’t let go, Chris … don’t … let …