A slice of Sky

My name is Kerry Henderson. I'm seventeen years old, and yesterday my best friend killed himself. Nobody in the town understood how such a strong, confident, gifted and personable rugby player leapt so far off the rails. Nobody saw the signs. I did, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. I was in fear of my own life.

Connor Willis was fifteen years old when he was injured in a serious house fire. It killed his sister and father and left his mother so disfigured and distraught she abandoned Connor. Nobody ever heard from her again. Connor had seventy percent third degree burns over his body and was kept in an isolated chamber in the Victoria Hospital to minimise infections getting into his open wounds. I was only able to visit him a few times but to be honest it could have been anyone lying in that bed. He was wrapped from head to toe in bandages. If it wasn't for his piercing blue eyes poking through I'd have never known it was him. He was always sedated, because of the pain he was in, so I never spoke to him until he finally got out of the hospital. That was a year after the accident.

Because I wasn't family I was never told the details of his treatment but the Aunt that cared for him said the doctors had found a suitable and compatible donor for skin graft treatment. She said that he didn't have enough of his own healthy skin to cover his wounds. As far as the doctors were concerned the treatment was a complete success. The skin took to Connor well, although the doctors said that he would never look like he did before the accident. I accepted that. I was just glad he was alive.

When I saw Connor for the first time it wasn't his appearance that worried me, it was whether he'd recognise me or not. I turned up at his Aunt's house unannounced. I hadn't planned to. I was going to let Connor get settled back to normal life before I descended on him, but I was desperate to see him, to hear him talk again. I felt like a part of my life had been on hold the whole time he was in hospital. His Aunt was a little reluctant to let me in but Connor insisted it was okay. When I walked into the sitting room he greeted me as he always did with a hug, but instantly I knew something was different. His hug was nothing more than cursory. Cold. I knew Connor. We'd been friends since we were toddlers. I knew him better I think than he knew himself. He was always the warmest of my friends. I put it down to the fact that he'd been through a terrible ordeal and so wasn't quite back to normal. So I sat on the couch and caught him up with all the gossip in the town, like who was hooking up with whom-I included the teachers in that as they all seemed to be at it as well. He laughed but as I continued talking his attention seemed to drift. He'd nod his head as though he was listening but I knew he wasn't. A couple of times I caught him looking out of the window. I didn't know what drew his focus.

I didn't know, when I left Connor's house, that his recovery wasn't going to be pleasant. The weight and strength he lost during his hospitalisation never returned. Before the accident he was always the athletic type. Rugby was 'his' game as he called it. He was passionate about it to the point where he coached younger kids to play. It gave him purpose in life. But he'd lost all interest in it. They say after a traumatic experience you're never quite the same person. For Connor it wasn't that he was never quite the same, he was completely different. He'd become lazy, slobbish, unwashed. He'd gotten into a couple of fights at school and his studies began to suffer as he failed test after test. I did what I could to help him improve his grades. I even sat with him once to help him write his English essay. When he gave up on it and slumped down on the crumpled sheets of his bed I pulled his laptop towards me and finished it for him. It was never my intention to pry, but something within me was curious to see what he'd been looking at on the web. I felt so disconnected, so distant from this new Connor I was desperate to know if a sliver of the old Connor still existed, if he still had his whimsical passion for pointless road signs (I remember him showing me a photo of one that read 'This sign is not in use'. I almost broke a hip laughing at that one. He laughed with me and before long we were rolling on the floor in uncontrollable fits of giggles). But when I flicked through his laptop I was horrified by the links on his favourites to crimes, criminals, murders, weaponry, even hardcore sex. When I challenged him about it he became defensive and angry. He leapt off the bed, grabbed me by my shirt and shoved me against the wall.
"Butt out of my business," he roared.
In all the time we'd known each other we never had a cross word. We disagreed plenty of times but it never came to the point of verbal or physical abuse. I will put my hand on my heart and say that in that moment I was scared to my core. Every bone and fibre in my body trembled and all I could think about was getting out. I packed my bag and left him to finish his paper himself.
The next day at registration he was all apologetic and promised it wouldn't happen again. I told him we needed to talk.
That lunch we sat down by the old oak in the park.
"What's going on Connor?" I asked softly, not wanting to rile him.
It seemed to take forever for him to answer. He kept staring at the ground, fiddling with a blade of dry grass.
"I don't feel like I know you anymore," I said.
He glanced across at me. His eyes were swollen and heavy. He wanted to cry but didn't seem able.
"I don't know me either," he said. "It's like there's something inside me. Something evil, crawling around, consuming me from the inside out. I can feel it. I'm...I'm loosing control."
"Well, I can't disagree with you on that score. The question is how do we put this right?"
"People, doctors, medics, keep telling me that I'm traumatised. That its the accident that's altered me. "
"That's inevitable Connor. Even I accepted you'd be a little different."
"That's just it," he said. "A little different. Not a lot different. I feel like another person."
Suddenly I felt a breakthrough. He'd admitted the extent of his change. That was surely a good thing.
"I'm ashamed of it," he said, his chin slumping against his chest.
I rested my arm delicately across his shoulders. "It's not your fault. You didn't start that fire."
"That's not what I mean," he said, shying away from me. "I...I did something. Horrible."
"Connor you don't have a horrible bone in your body. Whatever it was it couldn't be that bad."
"I killed a cat!" he spat.
The revelation rocked me but I knew I had to remain calm, not because I was afraid of being hurt myself, I was afraid of loosing the connection I had finally managed to make with Connor.
"Why?"
Connor shrugged his shoulders. "It annoyed me. It kept meowing at the patio doors. So I let it in. And," Connor shuddered as he continued, seemingly horrified himself by his actions, "strangled it."
I was horrified and upset myself, especially for Mrs Higgins, the cat's owner. Mogsy was all she had.
"That's not all," Connor said.
I braced myself for another revelation, another confession of abuse.
"While I was at the doctor's surgery, having my monthly check up I swiped a bunch of hypodermic needles. I took them down to the river and threw them at the rats, like they were darts."
"We need to get you some help, Connor. I mean psychological help," I said, rubbing his arm to reassure him I was on his side.
"It was the doctors that made me this way, Kerry. I'm not trusting them to do anything."
"What are you talking about? If it wasn't for the doctors you wouldn't be here. You'd be dead."
"I'd rather be dead than...than this. Than be this thing."
"You're not a thing, you're my friend."
"I'm loosing the fight, Kerry and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it."
At this point I was getting confused by what he was saying. It was like we were both having two completely different conversations. "What do you mean, loosing the fight? Loosing the fight against who?"
"Him," Connor spat with disgust. "The one who made me who I am."
"Connor, I'm confused. You're not making any sense."
"Sky Keppler," he said. The name vomitted from his mouth like poisoned food.
"Who's that?"
"The man who donated my skin," said Connor.
The name rolled in my head trying to find the hole in my brain in which to connect with the rest of the useless knowledge that floated around in there.
"Why do I recognise that?"
"He was in prison for murdering school kids around Birmingham," Connor said.
He pulled the sleeves of his shirt up over his elbows and began feverishly scratching his skin, like he was trying to tear it off.
"He's consumed my body, Kerry, and he wants my mind next. He's already in there. I can feel it. He's a poison that coursing through me, infecting everything."
"That can't be right. That's science fiction stuff, Connor," I said.
"You don't believe me," he roared. "I knew I couldn't trust you."
He leapt up on to his feet and glowered down at me. His eyes were burning with rage, his fists were clenched ready to deliver a blow and the wafer-thin skin on his face was taught like stretched cellophane.
I could see the struggle in his eyes. His body was ready for a fight but his eyes were pleading for peace. I wanted to cry; not for me but for him.
He ran off across the park.
I tore after him but lost him through the trees. I searched for him all day and in a last attempt to find him I decided to go down to the rugby clubhouse. The place he spent most of his life.
The lights weren't on but I figured even Connor wouldn't have put them on if he didn't want to be found. I skulked round the building, peering into the windows, looking for any signs of a forced entry. Then I heard muffled cries. Not the cries of a man.
"Why have you bought me here, Connor?" snuffled a young boy. "Are we playing rugby in the dark?"
"Quit your whinging!" Connor snapped.
He was in there. My heart dropped into my feet. I had no idea what he was going to do. In the fragile state he was in he could do anything. He'd already come close to smacking me twice and I'm sure it was only the history we had together that stayed his hand. How would he fair with a child he had very little connection with? I daren't think. A wave of nausea swept across me.
"What do you need a knife for?" cried the boy.
Hearing that sent me into a blind panic. I had to get in. I had to save the boy and try and save Connor, if that was at all possible. I found myself now actually believing what Connor had told me about Sky Keppler. It was the only explanation.
Without hesitation I scrambled around for something I could use as a weapon and happened upon a heavy branch that had snapped from a tree. I pulled of the leaves and twigs and gingerly approached the door. Connor must have had a key as the door was unlocked. As quietly as I could, I unlocked it and crept inside. I had no idea what the layout of the building was and so had to feel my way around, down and round the corridors until I could hear Connor's deep voice penetrating the walls. The boy he held was now terrified and began to scream for help.
"Shut up you whiny little brat," yelled Connor.
There was then a thud that sounded like something falling, followed by screams of pain from the boy.
My hand curled round the handle of the locker room door, my sweaty palms struggling to grip it, and opened it. I was so scared my heart was thumping in my chest.
I dropped the branch realising that any weapon would be useless to me. I had to use my wits instead.
"Connor," I called out. "Are you here?"
"Get away, bitch," Connor yelled.
"I'm not going anywhere," I said. "I'm here to help you."
"No chance of that now. I've got what I want. I'm free again."
"You're not Sky Keppler, Connor. You're name is Connor Willis. You're seventeen years old and you're my best friend."
Connor grabbed his head with both hands and shook it. "No, no, no," he yelled.
"You live with your Aunt Flora. You love rugby and play golf really, really badly. You love to laugh and you love to make people laugh with you."
Connor smacked back against the wall and slumped down on the floor. While he was distracted I grabbed the little boy and told him to run home.
When the boy disappeared through the door I approached Connor. He thrust the blade of his knife toward me to keep me at bay.
"He's mine," he shouted.
"No he's not Sky, he's mine. He's my friend."
"Kerry!" Connor cried.
"I'm here, Connor. It's me," I said, tears streaming down my face.
"I want peace," he pleaded, then his face contorted. "No, no, freedom."
Connor lifted the knife up, the blade glinted in the streetlight. Before I could stop him he plunged the knife into his throat.
"No!" I yelled. "Connor!"
Blood poured from the wound in his neck, staining his rugby and forming a syrupy pool on the locker room floor. But his life hadn't yet ebbed. I knelt down beside him and looked into his eyes. It was him. Connor. Pure Connor in those piercing blue eyes. In that last moment I saw the friend I knew two years ago. Then his eyes closed. Forever.