Just Let Me Die Here (A Serialized Novel) 15

It feels like hours have passed, though it’s probably nowhere near as long, and I am starting to drift off again, when I hear a voice. A different one than usual. This one is real. Or, at least, I think it is.

“Hello?” the voice calls. Am I imagining things? “Hello?” I hear it again. It sounds like it is coming from everywhere and I a quickly look around, trying to find its source. Again, waves of agony swallow me. I try to respond but my words catch in the chill of my chest. There is a pause long enough that I am certain I was hearing things. More voices of my mind’s own making are beginning to haunt me.

“There’s someone down there!” I hear the voice shout again. It sounds real. I don’t know where the owner of the voice is but I pray they are talking about me. For a brief second, I fear that they only see him. The man who hit me. The man who is still motionless under the tree. What if they get to him but don’t see me? What if they leave me here?

“Yes!” I shout out, pulling my voice free from the snow. “Yes! I’m here.”

“We’re getting help,” the person responds and if I had anything left in me, I would cry.

Within minutes I am surrounded by three ski patrol officers. They hurry to dig me out of the snow and pull me up onto a stretcher.

“Don’t worry, miss,” one says. “We’ve got you. We’re going to get you off this mountain.” I think I am smiling but have no control or awareness of what my body is doing. One of the men kneels right in front of me and, in bending over, something slips from inside his collar. A necklace with a gold, oval pendant. One that I recognize well. The image of Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers. I saw it all the time growing up as a similar pendant was stuck to the dashboard of Dad’s truck. He wasn’t a religious man, but was never one to scoff at luck if someone wanted to give it to him. “It’s a crazy world out there,” he would say. “Always nice to know you have someone looking out for ya.” This must be a sign. For the first time since I came crashing down this hillside, I am confident that I will make it out of here.

“Thank you,” I try to say to the ski patrol. And then I remember the man who caused this whole thing and I try to look around to find him. My previous fear that they would find him and not me has now flipped and I have to make sure that he is rescued too. “There’s another person,” I get out as one of the ski patrol is strapping me to the stretcher.

“Yes,” he says. “We’re getting your friend too. Don’t worry. You’ll both be okay.” Friend? Definitely not my friend. But I don’t have the energy to say so.

The stretcher is pulled up the embankment by ropes and then tipped over the edge, onto the flat trail. A small group has formed, watching the efforts of the ski patrol. I am the afternoon’s mountainside car wreck that everyone feels compelled to stop and watch. An older ski instructor tries to get people to move on and give us space, but there are stragglers. The stretcher is connected to two ski patrolmen on skis, one in front and one in back, and we are off. The man who ran into me has still not been lifted up to the trail by the time that we pull away.

The ride down the mountain is bumpy, every dip and lift in the snow shocking my body with a new punch of pain. The patrolman above my head makes sure it is not a quiet ride either. “What’s your name? What day is it? Where are you? Can you remember what you were doing before you fell?” I want to argue with him on that last one. I did not fall. I was pushed. Hit, more accurately, down the mountainside. And I have a very clear memory of how it happened, and the person who did it. But why, I want to know. Why did he run into me? I don’t think he was out of control. So, what happened? I only hope he survives so I can get some answers. But first, I need to get back to my family. Another bump shoots pain across my middle and I gasp. I need my family.

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