Murdered With Love

8. mission bulletcatcher

When I was thirteen years old, a classmate of mine had the unfortunate event to be run over by a car in front of her house. When I was fourteen, my cat died. When I was fifteen, I would hear the news that my cousin committed suicide. When I was sixteen, my biology teacher had overdoses of drugs and died with a tragic past.

And when I was seventeen, I died.

When I was young, I was so scared of flights and would refuse to go into any of them. My mom had to drag me along or hush me with an ice cream before she could get me into that airplane. But because of that fear, my grandmother would always say: "Oh, Freya, don't be so scared. What are you so afraid for?" And that's when I realised that my biggest fear was death.

I was scared to die. Sweat would break out by the idea of dying.

A wise woman once told me: "Whenever I go inside of an airplane, I'm not scared. The thing is, when it's your time to die, it's your time to die. When destiny thinks that you've lived enough, you've lived enough, and there's nothing you can do. Life is too short to be doing things you don't enjoy. You never know when it's your time and you will be six feet under the ground. You can't stop your own destiny."

And she is right. When it's your time to die, it's your time to die. So just enjoy.

But I'm laying on that floor, a crawling and burning pain shooting through me like webs. My only thought is: I don't want to die.

Even when it gets black. I don't want to die. Not yet. The thought comforts me, and yet I keep holding on to it until I believe it myself.

A slight touch. A murmer, barely a whisper. I can feel the touch in my hair, very careful and very precise.

"She's just so young." A woman's voice says with a sigh. I sense that is her hand that is slightly playing with my hair, and I don't try to stop her.

Someone hums. "She's a fucking psycho." It's Chase. "Why would she hire a girl to do such dirty work?" He sounds pissed, his words echo through the room.

The woman with the soft hands chuckles. "Didn't the boss try to flirt with her?"

Chase his laugh sound more like a hum. "Yeah, poor girl looked like she would rather die than be with that woman."

Now I feel it's the time to slightly open my eyes. The bright LED light make a lousy presence in the room. When I give a groan and try to push myself up, a hand stops me and hushes me. In my half awake presence, I try to see the person that's sitting right in front of me.

It's a woman. She is absolutely beautiful, even in the sickening white light. Her hair is cherry red, her eyes a hazel color. She wearw a pair of leather pants, high boots with heals, and a leather jacket. She was badass with her red lipstick, and yet she had one of the most sweetest looks on her face. "Are you okay?" She asks. When I don't respond immediately, she turns to Chase, who sits on the other end of the bed. "Poor thing." She says.

"I'm fine." Is the only thing I can say without it sounding like a murmer. My vision is still unclear, but I try to blink as much as possible as I take in my surroundings.

I'm in a room with bright light. There are three beds next to me. The room is a hospital wing. My gaze shoots over to my thigh because that's where most of the pain comes from. I'm only in a pair of black soft shorts and the white button up Chase lend me, my thigh wrapped in heavy bandages.

"You were shot." The woman says, also looking over at my thigh. "The boss does this to almost everyone." Her hazel eyes look over towards Chase, who is dozing off in the distance. "When Chase joined in, she strapped a stone around his neck and forced his head under water. She only released him when he went knock out because he couldn't get any air." The first thing that I notice is that her face and eyes are written with love when she looks over towards Chase.