Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
"How do you know?" she asks quietly. "How do you know it's going to be okay?"
My eyes drift closed, my eyelids too heavy, the wooziness too strong for me to fight, the current sweeping me under. I struggle with every last bit of energy in me to respond, my words barely a whisper.
"Because you're not getting rid of me that easily."
"Naz! Oh God, Naz!"
I'm caught in that space between sleep and awake where the world is a slow-motion haze, an illusion I can't believe. It's not real. It can't be. It can't be happening. Her voice is a fiery scream of terror, a sound that rattles my bones and stops me from breathing.
"Naz!"
She screams again, my name morphing into an ear-splitting shriek. It's a blink of an eye, a split second where I stare in the thick darkness at a cold, calculated face that used to regard me warmly.
They say when this life takes you it's usually at the hands of a friend.
I never thought it would be him.
The gunshot lights up the room before the blast hits me straight in the chest, like a firecracker going off beneath my ribcage. I can't speak, can't react, as the pain ruptures inside of me, expanding, exploding.
Fuck, I'm dead.
I'm dying.
I fall back on the bed, my vision already blacking out from the blast, blood staining the white sheets surrounding me. It looks black in the darkness, shadowy oblivion threatening to take me away.
She's still screaming.
She's screaming my name.
Over and over again.
Naz.
Naz.
Naz.
The name dies on her lips as another gunshot echoes through the room, her voice swallowed up by a loud gasp. A gasp for air, for another breath, for another chance… a gasp that rocks me to the core, a pain I feel beneath my skin, gripping me harder than the buckshot in my chest, constricting my heart until it explodes.
A blink, and he's gone. There's nothing but darkness around me, the room completely still.
Another blink, and I force myself to move, defying the laws of nature as I struggle to pull her into my arms. She's still gasping, desperate, trying to speak, her lips moving as they sound out my name, but there's no sound to accompany it. I hold her tightly, fighting… and fighting… and fighting, but there isn't enough fight left in the world for her.
One more blink, and she's gone, too.
Through the heavy blackness, the faint scent of antiseptics hits me, making my nose twitch. I shiver, the flimsy blanket covering me stiff and cold, like a sheet of thin ice, as air blows down on me from somewhere up above.
Before I even open my eyes, I know exactly where I am. I've been here before. This isn't the first time I've woken up this way.
Last time I thought I was in Hell.
The hospital.
The air is icy around me, deathly silent, but I can hear chaos in the distance: beeps from machines, the rush of footsteps, whispered chatter. Forcing my eyes open, I'm not surprised that darkness greets me.
It's still nighttime.
If it's even the same day…
My vision is blurry and my head is foggy. Medicine heavily runs through my system, a grogginess that comes only from being drugged, but it does little to ease the pain.
I don't want to move.
It hurts to fucking blink.
Ignoring it, I shift position anyway, clenching my jaw when I try—and fail—to sit up in the bed. My fingertips tingle, my mouth dry, as a sudden swell of nausea rushes through me.
My head feels like it's about to explode.
Collapsing back with a resigned sigh, my hands explore what I can feel of myself. There's a big bandage on my left side, the source of most of the pain. An IV leads from my right arm to a machine, pumping something clear into my veins.
Whatever it is, I want nothing to do with it.
Grimacing, I yank the IV right out of my arm and throw it aside, ignoring the small stream of blood that runs from the tiny wound, dripping onto the floor. I yank out every wire running to me, pulling out needles, disconnecting myself from machines.
My blurry eyes scan the room in the darkness. I'm alone. I'm not surprised, but the nagging in my chest at the moment is about more than just my injuries. No matter how irrational it might be, part of me thought she'd be here, that she'd be at my side whenever I woke up.
But there's no sign of Karissa anywhere.
She found her opening, her chance to run when there's no way for you to chase her. She's free of you now.
It only takes a minute after regaining consciousness before the door to the room opens. My gaze shifts that way, instinctively looking for her, stupidly hoping it'll be her.
Instead it's a man I'm gravely familiar with.
Dr. Michael Carter.
Okay, so he's not that kind of doctor, per se.
He's a doctor of veterinary medicine.
Which means neither of us belong here.
Hospitals mean records, which mean mandatory reports, which means it's only a matter of time before the police come knocking. I go to Carter to stitch me up quickly and quietly, but this wasn't quick, nor is it going to be quiet.
The man at least has enough sense to keep the light in the room off, offering a nervous half-smile as he tentatively approaches.
I don't return the greeting.
There's nothing to smile about here.
My voice is scratchy as I ask, "Why am I here?"
He hesitates before cutting off the machines I just disconnected myself from before the alerts bring anyone else to the room. He sits down on the edge of the bed by my feet. "Didn't have a choice, Vitale. You lost quite a bit of blood."
"I don't care," I say. "You should've robbed the Red Cross before bringing me to this place."
He's quiet, contemplative, as he looks around, looking at everything except for me now. He knows he made a mistake. His gaze settles on the empty chair across the room, the one intended for visitors, but there are none of those for me.