lie to me → s.d.

.29 | no escape

          The inky, void-like darkness that surrounded Theodora and Sam was a bit like the black that enveloped them at the Rossi Estate, but they were no longer dancing in that special way they did there. No, this was the opposite of dancing. This was stumbling, tripping, blindly and without knowledge to where they were going. This was using the others' panted breaths and touch to keep themselves together, to make sure they wouldn't vanish forever if either of them let go for even a moment. This wasn't dancing; this was running for their lives.

          Theodora's shoulder screamed with every step she took, and every time she rammed it into a stone wall in the dark she had to bit her tongue to keep from groaning and hissing in pain. When the warm ache seeped, hollowing her bones and making it feel as though she couldn't take it anymore, she yanked on Sam's shirt and slowed her pace.

          "I need to stop," she said to the nothingness around here. She found the closest wall and slid down before sitting on the floor, hand gingerly hovering over the small, round hole in her shirt. She listened to Sam try to catch his breath and felt the tips of his boots kick hers.

          He murmured a swear that seemed to echo for miles. "Shit. I dropped my damn lighter."

          "Well, then, it's a good thing we're both smokers." A feigned chuckle forced its way from her throat as she dug around in her pocket. She produced her own, a metallic flip lighter with her initials carved into it, and struggled to spin the cog with just one shaking hand. When the flame finally jumped to life, her features were illuminated with a gentle orange glow, giving her the appearance of an angel having fallen from grace. She felt like much worse.

          Sam came into view from the dark and took the lighter, then worked on tugging the collar of her shirt off her shoulder. When it wouldn't stay put, he finally gave in and brought his face close to her skin, ripping the cloth of her shirt with his teeth. A shiver climbed up her spine when they brushed against her skin and she tried to laugh playfully.

          "You like that, honey?" he joked half-heartedly, but his attention was turned to tearing the shirt to allow him access to her bandage. He noticed her expression, her displeasure with having her only top ripped up, and he added, "I'll buy you a new one."

          "Yeah, you will."

          She took the lighter and held it up as his calloused fingers worked to peel the bandage from her skin, drawing a prolonged whimper from her belly. His expression curled into one of both pain and agony as if he were the one bleeding out. She dared a glance down at her shoulder and wished she had just kept her eyes focused on the flame instead.

          The gunshot wound, surrounded by dried blood on her skin, was a small, circular hole going straight through her shoulder. The edges of the wound were angry and inflamed, purple mixed like a watercolor in with the pink and red. The puffy, swollen skin hosted the smallest swatch of umber and maroon; it was getting infected, no doubt from the dust and grime they had been walking through for the past hour or so.

          Sam saw her disgusted features and hurried to seal the tape back to her skin. "I've seen worse," he said, but there was an edge to his voice she didn't fail to notice. "Thank god the exit wound ain't as bad, huh?"

          "Feels like someone hit me upside with a hammer," Theodora said and raised her good arm to wipe the sweat beading on her forehead. When she didn't blink for a long few moments, the edges of her vision became fuzzy, like a television stuck on static, searching fruitlessly for a signal. She blinked rapidly and it went away.

          He positioned his hands beneath her arms and hauled her to her feet, arm snaking around her middle to keep her from falling flat on her face. "Welcome to getting shot, sweetheart," he tried to joke, but he knew that when she didn't smile at one of his cracks for the very first time, it was getting worse. He took her lighter and extended it out before them as they continued on. Her brachial artery had been cut when she was shot; he wasn't a doctor, but reading all those books in prison, he had learned a thing or two. If they didn't get her to an emergency room or some kind of clinic, it would be less than five hours or so before she bled out. That was, if nothing else worsened the wound.