Because of You

When the Music Stops

At first, I thought it was just something hard slapping against the ground. I thought the wind had knocked over one of the trash bins by the front doors. I didn't really know what it was until Finn's knees buckled and the guy ran off.

It was too surreal, too distant, like watching a film.

I was out the car before I even thought to move. Dimly I noted how I was still carrying the books as I raced over. I dropped them on the ground and fell to my knees, staring down at someone I didn't recognize. A broken Finn. A bleeding Finn. It felt like a joke because this . . . this wasn't real. I couldn't take it in.

My entire body shook and a weird sound was coming out of my mouth as I placed my hands on him, as if I expected this image to shatter at my touch. It didn't; my fingers just came away red and sticky.

"Clarke," he whispered, wide, unfocused eyes staring up at me. His hand latched onto my arm, the nails digging into my skin.

That was when something in me shifted, and I pulled out my phone. I dialed 911, not hearing my own voice as I spoke. "Someone's been shot." I think was what I said, my mouth forming those words, so foreign and strange and incomprehensible.

People expected things like this to happen. All the time. But they never expected it to happen to them. It was as impossible as the sky falling; as impossible as trucks materializing out of thin, rainy air.

I hung up and tossed the phone aside, looking back at a now close-eyed Finn.

Cold terror slammed into me. "No, Finn, you have to stay awake, okay?" I said, but his awareness was starting to wane, his hold on my arm loosening.

His eyes fluttered and I tried again, rifling through every medical thing I knew. But I couldn't think clearly. It all seemed convoluted and messy now and I clamped my hands over the wound punching through his chest.

There are ten pints of blood in the adult body. Ten pints.

One pint was spilling out from under his body, painting the cement around us a deep crimson. Another was coating the front of my shirt, but a person could survive on eight pints. They could even survive on seven, which was running down the sides of his abdomen in brilliant ribbons of red, like a package crudely ripped opened.

But not six.

Six pints meant death, and it had already begun to drain beneath my hands, squelching between my fingers and soaking his upper torso. I wished he'd worn something other than white.

"You're not dying, okay?" I told him. It was an order and I injected as much conviction as I could into my voice which wasn't very much. But that was okay; I could lie well enough. Doctors always had to, just as much with their words as their faces. Maybe even more so. They wanted to break it to the families with ease, not let something like the set of their lips give it away.

I went over what I knew to keep myself from that, from letting my feelings bleed into my expression. His partially distended abdomen was an indication of internal bleeding; pulse was fading fast.

Six pints six pints six pints.

I took a shaky breath. "You'll be fine," I said, my voice feeling misplaced somewhere in my throat, like it took a wrong turn. It came out strained and broken.

I pressed my hands down harder over the wound, trying to keep the pieces of him inside where they belonged. I pushed until my arms cramped, ignoring the convulsion that ran through his body. I stared into his face, eyelashes casting shadows onto his cheekbones, his unruly dark hair framing around his head like a halo. I tried to hear past his painful gasps.

"You're okay," I said again. It came out louder than I intended, as if I was making a bargain with God. "The ambulance is on its way."

It'll be here. It's coming. Real doctors will fix this.

Finn let out a choked sound, haggard and garbled. Blood bubbled up his throat, staining his lips an awful scarlet. But I still told myself he'd be fine. He had to be. There was no other option.

His eyes suddenly fluttered open and I found myself looking into liquid brown. There was a resolve in them, like he'd made peace with something I couldn't see. There was a goodbye in those eyes and his hand latched onto mine. He squeezed.

But I wasn't ready. "No." I shook my head adamantly. "No, you're not dying on me, okay?" It was a beg this time, but I didn't care. I'd beg for him. I'd beg the world for him. "I need you to fight. Please, please. Do it for me. Fight for me!"

His eyes stayed on mine for another moment, clear. Beautiful. Then they drifted to the stars above my shoulder.

They glazed over, and his grip went slack.