His hand grows limp, but I press it to my face, refusing to accept this. No, this is not the end. He can’t leave the earth like this.
“Connor?” I wheeze, squeezing his hand, begging he take my strength and make it his own.
“Punky, he’s g-gone.”
But I refuse to listen to Babydoll’s pleas. There is no way he’s gone. This man is the strongest arsehole I know.
“Aul’ lad?” I press, shoving at his chest, the chest which no longer fills with air. “…Dad?”
Grief tackles me, and I’m transported back to that bedroom floor when I pleaded for my ma to wake up. But just like her, Connor won’t. He’s dead. I’ve watched both my parents perish, and I still don’t know why.
With his blood mingled with mine, I swipe three fingers down the middle of my forehead, promising that his death won’t be in vain.
