The Cult of Romeo

XXII. Everybody Wants to Rule

I snapped around to D'Angelo who now cowered in the corner, his eyes on my friend as worry swirled in his sky blue orbs. I didn't waste time. I smashed my chair across his forehead, he stumbled back against the vanity and the back of his gelled head shattered the mirror above. He sprawled along the floor, still alive, still conscious but pieces of mirror pierced his skin. I threw the chair his way and turned to Francis now who progressed towards me, gently.

Amusement flickered in his eyes but I didn't have enough time to think about it. I grabbed Khaleel's chair now and lifted it above my head before it came crashing down on Francis. It was only a wooden chair, old and rickety, but through my rush of adrenaline, I couldn't think about the details.

He stumbled back, only a few steps as blood dripped from the nasty gash on his forehead. He hardly recognised the pain or the warmth of scarlet - only me. Francis rushed forward and his slender fingers wrapped tightly around my wrist that he held it in an iron grip. Panic rose in my chest and Francis pulled at my hand in an awkward position, causing a snap to echo through my ears and I yelped before kicking my leg up roughly between his legs. He cried out and I pushed him back, ignoring the burning in my wrist.

After all the action, adrenaline poured through my veins making my heart race and chest heave up and down. The atmosphere was cold and unmoving and that's when I remembered Khaleel on the floor.

He was on his knees as his hands, stained with blood, covered the deep wound on his stomach. The coppery substance had soaked so intensely onto his white button-up that it looked more black than red now.

I rushed towards him, practically diving to his side until I was close enough to press my hands against his wound to stop the bleeding. He hissed in pain and my gaze blurred with the unshed tears I refused to let free now. His blood was warm against my skin and smelt so strongly that I had to stop myself from choking. My eyes wandered to both D'Angelo and Francis as I tried to pull him to stand.

"Come on, we've got to get you out of here," I pleaded and grabbed his wrist.

"That's not going to work, Charlie," Khaleel breathed. His voice shocked my heart into stopping for a moment. It was hoarse and deep and so...hopeless. This wasn't right. Khaleel wasn't hopeless. He couldn't die.

"Come on," I pressed, ignoring his last sentence. I wouldn't let it happen. Not now, not because of me.

Ignoring the incessant throbbing of my wrist, I pulled him up with a huff and practically dragged him outside the door. I could almost hear the audience upstairs, it wasn't long and we'd be safe. I'd get Khaleel to a hospital and he'd be fine. Just out the door, up the stairs, along the corridor, down more stairs to the auditorium and everyone would be there to telephone an ambulance.

Now that I thought of it, there was a lot for us to go. And with Khaleel how he was, I wouldn't sure it would work. But it had to. I felt as though I were marching through quicksand when I slammed the basement door and arrived at the steep stone stairs outside, he collapsed onto the cold floor below.

I whimpered, knowing there was no way I'd be able to carry him up the stairs.

With my blood-stained hands, I wiped my cheeks of salty tears and crouched to Khaleel's now pale face.

"Please Khaleel. Come on, we have to go now. We'll be okay soon. You won't- You'll be fine," I encouraged but he swatted my face away with a frown. At that moment, I fully took him in. Sweat dripped from his pale brown skin as he breathed deeply through his teeth. Sharp lines had formed on his usually soft face and the pain that radiated from him was almost palpable.

"I won't make it, Charlie. I refuse to spend my last minutes climbing up the bloody stairs."

"Then I'll climb up the stairs and be back right away with help," I insisted.

Khaleel shook his head and his soft dark curls bounced. "No, don't go. I'll be dead by the time you get back and I don't want to die alone. "His voice broke and shook under the truth that he'd soon be gone. "Please don't let me die alone, Charlotte. Please."

Tears now fell freely from my eyes and I cursed them. "You can't die. Beatrix and me still haven't given you the grand tour of Burton Abbey. You're going to be a writer, remember? You have to survive, you have to write this story. You can't die, it's not the right time."

He sighed deeply and pushed the tendrils of my brown hair back and behind my ear. "Such is life," the foolish boy shrugged.

A sob tore through my body. I was so exhausted, from the visions, from the fight, from the stress. Everything threw me in and out of sleep but I had to stay awake for Khaleel.

"I'm sorry that I'm crying." I wiped at my face. "I can't believe I'm being such a baby."

Khaleel frowned and reached his hand up meekly to cup my cheek. "Don't ever apologise for showing emotions, especially crying. Don't apologise. You're allowed to cry, and shout and goddamn, Charlie, you can smile, too!"

I placed my quivering hand over his that rested on my cheek and released a shaky sob. "I can't believe we've known each other for three weeks."

He smiled weakly. "Romeo and Juliet knew each other for far less time."

"Oh, please don't talk about them now. God, I hate Shakespeare so much, so fucking much."

"Well, I still like him," Khaleel pouted, clinging onto life. "So much that I'm dying for it."

I flinched as though he'd hit me. "Don't...don't talk like that. You can't just be another ghost in this stupid school. You can't just be another memory I see through someone's eyes. You can't..."

Our freedom was so close yet so far. We'd fought through the hard parts yet here I was now, pressing my hand to his wound that was so deep that his soul was slipping out. My wrist was swollen and our faces pale.

I closed my eyes, my heart skipped a beat and I leant down slightly. A tear dropped from my eye and onto his cheek before our lips met in a soft collision that lasted barely a second.

It was a goodbye.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to figure this out," I whispered, my voice was thick with guilt. "I shouldn't have pushed you off when you kissed me. And, when I told you that it didn't mean anything, I was lying. God, was I lying. Because that kiss meant everything to me, absolutely everything. I'm so proud of you, Khaleel. You told me that morning in the rain that you couldn't stand up for yourself yet you took a dagger for me tonight. Thank you."

"Love hath made thee a tame snake," he teased with the slight twist of his lips.

Before I responded, the door at the top of the stairs slammed open making the walls rattle. Heavy footsteps bounded down the stone steps and when I lifted my head, my breath got caught in my throat.

It was a man, tall and stocky with tousled brown hair and a dishevelled grey suit. Our eyes met and I felt as though in that moment, nothing was real. I could have died and gone to heaven for all I knew because nothing made sense anymore.

That grey suit, it felt as though I'd seen it in a dream. Accompanied with the soft touch of a lover and the smoke of a train; I recognised it from another walk of life. One far from here yet so close. I just stared with my mouth bobbing open and closed like a fish in the faint light of the yellow lightbulb.

The door of the basement also tore itself open to reveal Francis who looked more murderous than ever. Blood gushed from his forehead, he'd ripped off his bow tie and pink lips pulled into a thin line.

He snapped his gaze to the man in the grey suit with a wicked snarl. The man stood alone on the stairs as his figure cast dark shadows along the cracked walls that contorted and stretched out like a parent reaching for their child. The soul behind his eyes ran deep and was filled with passion that he used to direct at Francis with a flicker of a glare so full of hatred that even I felt like a deer in the headlights.

"Who the hell are you?" Francis spat at the grey-suited man.

At that moment, when he puffed out his chest and lifted his chin in defiance, I knew exactly who he was. I recognised that look in even myself and the emotions that exploded along my skin was enough to make me pass out.

"Her brother, motherfucker!"

It was Henri. Henri Edward Monet. My dead brother.