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"If you make me chocolate cake, we can pretend this never happened" -Athens
꧁__________꧂
As we were all jostled down the stairs by the others I watched the sights of it all unfold in front of me. Tokyo was racing down the stairs surgical kits in hand while Rio and Helsinki sped a table into the hall. I held my head in my hands feeling a terrible migraine pulse through my head.
We were going to die in this little shit hole. We hadn't considered a hostage getting shot, or a hostage getting killed and looked what happened to them. The hostages were rolling in gold-covered luck and the moment, and then the thought came to me. We weren't going to make it out alive, how could we? We were going to die.
and at what costs?
They frantically cut open Arturo's jumpsuit spilling water and alcohol over his wound as curled up into a ball and sobbed into his chest the blood diluting with his tears. 32 hours in and this was the second-worst problem you could expect to happen, the first was us killing a hostage. Now we had not only one but two to add to our list of not so very happy accidents.
As they danced around his body, as if he had already died and they were performing a spiritual ritual, I pulled on the locks on my hair screaming silently behind my mask. Berlin was sitting in the corner watching the others care for Arturo. In this situation, he could have been a big help, but of course, he prided himself too much to get his hands dirty.
I bet he could have found a cure for cancer or any disease if he was willing to put in the effort, but if he didn't want to do something, he wouldn't no matter what you can't force him.
spit dribbled down Arturo's face as he cried, "I need to talk to my wife, please, I need to talk to my wife"
They say when you're walking into the arms of the fallen angel you see your life flash before your eyes like an action movie trailer, and as Arturo felt the blood spill down from his chest he waited to see those moments, bringing him peace and condolence in his last moments. He was waiting to find out who was his true love, his wife sitting at home with the kids praying for his return, who he served 14 years of marriage with or his supposedly dead lover who brought him more pleasure than Laura ever could, and made him feel like a rebellious college student.
It seemed as if he definitely would find his life answers soon, with the way the others were handling things. Shoving rolls of gauze on his wounds, and flying around like wasps instead of thinking back to the first aid lessons back in Toledo. Where they should step back and study the wound and see how bad the damage was.
From here I could only make out, the gushing hole coming from around his neck and shoulder. I couldn't tell if he had punctured his oesophagus or windpipe, or if the bullet had shattered his collarbone like a sledgehammer to a glass window. If only I could get closer.
