All Bets Are Off

Chapter Twenty-One - Ella Fordman: The Girl Who Lost It All

~Chapter Twenty-One: Ella Fordman: The Girl Who Lost It All~

 

            “No,” I whispered. “No!”

            I looked back down at Phoenix, who was pale and completely still, his eyelids an ominous dark purple color.  Already they were gelling defibrillator pads. This had to be some kind of crazy nightmare.

            A nurse ran to me, clutching my arm. Annie, I realized with a jolt of shock. Hey eyes were wild and feverish, her hair a tangled mess of curls. “Ella, you need to leave. Now.”

            “What’s going on?” I whispered.

            “Please,” Annie whispered. “Ella, we’re losing him. You need to go so that we can bring him back.”

            Slowly, I slid out of the bed next to Phoenix, my shoe-clad feet hitting the ground. I was forcibly pulled out by a couple of nurses, who promptly shut the door on me, and I banged against it in frustration. There were no windows, so I couldn’t see in, but even if I could, I doubted I’d understand what was happening.

            I leaned against the wall next to the door and slowly dragged down it until I hit the linoleum floor squarely. I drew my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around it, burying my face in my knees and letting out a choked sob.

            My fault, my mind said over and over again. My fault, my fault, my fault…

 

            If we lost him, it was my fault. Because I couldn’t be bothered to get up and drive him home. No, I had to pick dress shopping over someone who actually needed me. His words echoed through my head, perhaps one of the last I’d ever hear from him.

            “This is my choice, and I choose you.”

 

            And because of that choice, he was currently being revived, fighting for his life. We could lose him. It seemed so real now. A world without Phoenix Adams. What was the world without Phoenix Adams? To seven billion people on this earth, it would be a normal day. They’d be none the wiser. They’d have no clue of the fact they’d lost someone so incredibly talented.

            But I knew. And the guilt would haunt me forever, plaguing me in my deepest dreams. He couldn’t go yet. I needed a chance to correct my mistakes.

            The tears flowed, to the point that it was almost impossible to breathe. My breaths came in staccato gasps, and I held myself together as tightly as I could, as if there were a gaping hole in my chest that was impossible to hold together; an agonizing pain that rippled through me, cutting deeper than this sharpest knife.

            It felt like I’d been there for years, though I knew it had to be less than that. But it had been a good half-hour. What were they doing in there? Did it take that long to revive someone? I’d heard somewhere that after four minutes they were practically dead with no chance of revival, but what else could they be doing in there?