Wasted Years

I can't believe I've started to keep a journal. Maybe in the end, that's all that will be left: a paper recount of humanity that the Cylons will read when they're bored and need a good laugh.

Anyways. I told Micah about Christopher. Did anyone really know outside the family before that? I don't remember. Its not the sort of pillow talk I usually get into. Those are confessions kept for months into a relationship, and I seldom ever see a second date. Are we dating? I feel like I'm back in highschool. Which incidently is where it all started…

Christopher. Sixteen years old and having your boyfriend in a coma. I'd sit next to his bed and talk to him nervously, twirling his class ring around my finger, wearing away the string he wrapped around it so it'd fit until he could afford something proper. All those murmured apologies, all those promises. Eight years, two months, and four bells of visiting him in that ward. I can still hear the hiss of the breathing machine as the backdrop to my words. The stories I'd tell him, laughter and tears, just hoping he'd wake up and cry or guffaw too. But none of it mattered. Eight years, two months, and four bells. They pulled the life support, they said their goodbyes. Did he hear those too?

I still carry around his birthday present. I was supposed to give it to him that night, but we fought instead. You couldn't even recognize his car, wrapped around that tree. They all blamed me, how could they not? I blamed myself, too. But its one of those things that fade. I tried to figure out how to help him. My family nudged me into the Navy medical training program. College. Officer's academy. Too bad I can't stand the sight of blood. At least I found a field I thought was comparable and didn't waste all my credits. They can hear you, you know? Coma patients. On some base level, their brains register your words. Voices. Tone. I hoped in some small way I'd be able to help Major Carter as well. Sat there and let Z record it all. But it turns out? None of it matters. They don't remember.

Eight years, two months, four bells. And they don't remember. But I do. Its a little box, wrapped in faded paper with a crushed bow. I think I'm ready to get rid of it now.

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