By angelic_editor <Moxie406@yahoo.com>
Submitted: November 2006
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine; the words are. Please don't take legal action, as recent college graduates aren't worth suing, anyway.
Feedback: Better than chocolate. Be brutal; I welcome comments and criticism of all kinds.
WHAM warning: This is a death-ficlet.
She should've told him.
She should've reassured him that it was all right, that she understood. That she didn't mind.
And that she was so, so sorry for all the terrible things she'd unknowingly uttered in his presence.
But her world was rapidly shrinking into a tiny circle, and she was so cold. So, so cold.
There wasn't enough time.
She rested a shaking hand on his chest, her index finger curling weakly against the rip in his button-down shirt, brushing the blue spandex and the familiar insignia.
She shuddered, pain firing through every synapse.
He leaned closer, cradling her broken body.
She drew as deep a breath as she could manage, looking into his dark eyes so full of regret, of guilt.
But this wasn't his fault. She wished she could find the strength to say so.
There were so many things she wanted to say. And absolutely no time to say them.
Her breath hitched as another wave of pain washed over her. But she couldn't cry out, couldn't let it distract her. She had to use what little time was left wisely; she had to tell him what was most important.
She swallowed hard. "Resurrection," she rasped.
Before her world dimmed completely, she saw the questions swirling in Clark Kent's — Superman's — eyes.
But Mayson Drake couldn't answer them. There just wasn't enough time.