'You are going to help me acquire something very valuable,' he spoke close to my ear, his breath fanning down my neck.
I looked up at the paintings in front of us, all worth millions of pounds, and then at the spot on the wall where one was missing...
There's so much blood. Crimson stains the floorboards and pools at my feet. Everywhere I look below me I see it. Shades of dark red leaking into the crevices of my flat. The culprit is sat on the floor cradling his injured leg, screaming out in pain. It's so loud. Every time he opens his mouth it sends a shiver down my spine. I've never heard something so excruciating. What's worse is that I am the cause of it.
I shot Joe. My ex-boyfriend, the man that proposed to me. He's currently got a hole in his leg and I did it.
I hoped I'd never have to use the gun Harry gave me, let alone in the same night it was gifted. Life works in funny ways, though. Mere hours after I saw him, I had to use the weapon bestowed upon me for protection. It certainly served it's purpose, but I'm not sure the target is as much of a threat as I anticipated.
While I'm glad my aim was lowered, I'm still worried I've hit a major artery given how much blood there is. My shoes are drenched in it. Suddenly it's all I see. Blood doesn't shock me; it doesn't make me feel sick. Usually. But when it's coming out of someone that you care about, you begin to panic.
How am I supposed to explain this to him? Better yet, why the hell is he here?
Joe has never been the type to snoop. Though he's nosy, I haven't known him to dig through someone else's stuff. Most of the time he just keeps to himself. In the months after we broke up he was much needier, insistent on having constant contact with me and to know where I was, who I was with, and so on. Recently, that's changed. He's been quiet. Maybe even too quiet. It's been welcome; the sound of his voice began to irritate me but seeing him here only raises my suspicions. What the bloody hell has he been up to?
When I saw his face, I immediately dropped the gun to my feet. Another shot followed from the impact which hit my sofa. Joe's body jolted at the sound and caused even more blood to flow from the wound. For a moment it was silent in my head, my ears not picking up on any sound. Everything moved in slow motion as my mind grasped onto what had happened. It's like I could see him, but he wasn't really there. Just a figment of my imagination. Then it all hit at once, and I realised what I'd done. He's awake and stable now, but who knows if I've signed his death warrant.
Abruptly, I fall to my knees and crawl to him through the blood. It seeps into my jeans and soaks the skin inside. It's much warmer than anticipated. For some reason I've always assumed that blood would be cold, but under my body it's room temperature. It is thick, though. It sticks to me as I make my way over to him, my hands covered the minute I placed them down.
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Once I reach him his face flashes with panic. He thinks I'll hurt him again. He's scared of me. No one has ever been scared of me.
I can't dwell on it. I have to tend to the wound and stabilise the bleeding before I do anything. I should probably call a paramedic but the thought of trying to explain this only makes the anxiety increase. My hands are shaking as they touch his leg. He winces at the impact even though I'm nowhere near the shot yet. There must be so much pain radiating through his body now.
