Coalescence ➳ H.S.

Seventeen: Bonny Barbara Allan

"This is Clarine. Leave a message after the beep."

Monotonous. Lifeless. It wasn't her voice I heard—not nearly the same voice anyway. The tone sounded and I cleared my throat.

"Sperling, I—" I started, but paused, suddenly going blank. Out of all times to zone out, why now? Fucking hell. Bria raised an eyebrow at me and gestured with her head, as if to say 'Well? What the hell are you waiting for?'. I cleared my throat again, certain it wouldn't do anything to help my hoarse throat, but that didn't really matter right now.

"I'm sorry, I love you," I spluttered. "Wait... wait no, those were two separate things, like 'I'm sorry' and 'I love you', not an apology for—"

"Message recorded."

"Fuck," I cursed, shoving the phone back to Bria. What the hell was I thinking? Spilling my heart out over a thirty-second voice message? Thinking that that would make up for the fact that I hit her?

"Well...you were supposed to tell her to pack her things and stay safe but I guess that was close enough," Bria smirked at my misfortune of messing up yet again. I groaned and leaned my head against the window, watching as the taxi got closer and closer to our destination, the fifteen minutes passing by slower than decades in my head. I knew she was angry at me, but I couldn't help but to feel excited to see her again.

However, one peculiar sight stopped my excitement dead in its tracks. As we pulled up to Sperling's home, two black cars—windows tinted to the darkest shade that was legal and chrome rims to add a polished touch—were parked right outside, and her front door was open. My mind clouded and the only name I could hear ringing in my ears was Xander's.

Out of some new found strength, as the car was still rolling, I unlocked the car door and sprinted out, tumbling to the concrete and scraping my knees in the process. I didn't care—I picked myself back up and scrambled to her door, hearing Bria shout at me in the background.

I burst into her home, desperate to find some sign of where they had taken her.

And then I saw it.

I counted them: one, two, three, four, five men in black suits sprawled out around the small girl huddled in the corner of the living room, clutching her phone and playing my voice message on repeat. Her eyes were clamped shut and her gun was clasped tightly in her hand, pointing it aimlessly at the area in front of her. The bodies bled onto the plain carpet I had noted weeks ago, leaving them stained crimson. Tears stained her cheeks, and that's when I saw what they did to her.

Her shirt was torn—nearly ripped to shreds, as if a wild animal mangled her—and her bra strap was hanging off her shoulder; her shorts had been tossed further off on the ground and her underwear pooled around her ankles; her hair was a mess, bearing a likeness to how it would've looked if someone carelessly tugged on it. She was shaking—even from where I stood, about ten feet away, I could tell she was. I did my best not to throw up at the thought of what the men dared to do to her.

"Sperling?" I called weakly, stepping out of the line of her gun. She clamped her eyes shut even tighter and sobbed into her knees.

"I killed them," she whimpered. She repeated it like a prayer. "I killed them."

"Harry, the cars are vacant—" Bria stated as she stepped into the house only to freeze at the sight of Sperling on the ground and me not daring to touch her. Her jaw dropped, but she quickly regained her composure and said, "We need to hurry. Get her to call her family. They should still be safe; Phoenix doesn't have any safe houses in Ontario. Meet me outside in fifteen. We don't have time."