.Perfect Fantasy. |H.S.|

Chapter 42. Into the Dark.

"Hello?" I asked again, my voice fading as I turned on my spot. Where I'd expected to see mops, brooms and buckets was a full storage room filled with bags and boxes of all sizes standing neatly and orderly in front of me, all labeled with black sharpie neat letters. Everything was in place except the last few boxes, which lead to the last part of the cramped room and the shoe that I touched.

Except it wasn't a shoe.
At least not by itself.
Oh, God!
Wiping a hand over my face and feeling a small spark of hope, I moved forward; sliding boxes around, the smell of glue and paper filled my nostrils and I moved as fast as I could.

Sean's body was fully seen from behind some large pieces of ornament containers.

"Sean?" Oh, my God. I couldn't move fast enough, my voice wavering as I kept talking to empty air. "Holy shit, is something wrong with you?" He was lying on his side, but the muscles of his arms were achingly familiar. My hand quaked as I turned him over, pressing a little more force than I expected while white-hot pain pierced me as I noticed his face; his mouth was just as relaxed as I imagined, but his eyes were closed, long eyelashes singed and eyelids glued together with blood.
Fuck, no.
More blood covering his chest and arms, turning his gray shirt nearly black.
A choking ball of emotion lodged in my throat and I swallowed clumsily, heedless of the pain.

I'd seen that story too many times before—so many times with patients known or unknown, but never had it struck so close to home. There was no need for me to push my fingers into his carotid to check, it was obvious to the touch of his cold skin that there was nothing I could've possibly done to help. He was gone.

Time stopped at this very moment, seeing everything with perfect clarity as I stared in horror at him. Things were so very off; the smiley face of his fiancé, the casual banter between him and Harry and all of these past weeks were still fresh as whatever wounds got him. I broke down, my mouth left open, still screaming without a sound, completely mortified as tears rolled down my cheeks—"I'm sorry," I whispered as grief scooped a hollow in my belly. "I'm... so fucking sorry..." Deep, heaving sobs issued from me, and though I couldn't hear anything except a piercing ring that echoed in my body, my lips quivered nonstop as if I had screamed.
I moved back against a tattered box, hugging my arm around my bent legs, my forehead resting on my knees.
My body would not comply, I couldn't stop.

"Harry..." Stupid, helpless tears that came too easily now. "He... loved you so much..." I rubbed my hand across my face, smearing wetness, trying to scrub it all away. "I—" I blinked rapidly, willing myself to calm down.

Agitation bloomed inside my chest, spiking through my body as my heart rate went wild and alarm bells started sounding in my head. A theory growing stronger and stronger in my head.

"She's here."
I'd never known such fear in all my life.
I could barely think straight.
Straight-laced dread and disgust took over my body, making my limbs feel heavier by the minute.
"Isn't she?"
The pounding of my heart and the haul of my lungs only matched by the shaking that disturbed my body, eyes raging as if I was reliving the memory of Harry being completely right with his gut feeling, and I fell into the trap of recollection; couldn't suppress those memories either, not with Sean's body right beside me.

That simple knowledge was a deathlike blow, with which I struggled desperately, seeking to regain control over my shattered nerves.

At last, I sank weakly down against the wall and lay trembling in every limb, staring blindly with wide-open, unseeing eyes, legs so shaky I wouldn't have been able to hold myself up any longer anyway.

I could only think of Harry.
Please let him be okay.
Please let him be alive.

***

Minutes or hours passed followed by silence. No one came. It was as if everyone in the world had disappeared and left me behind, the quiet of the house driving me mad and making me seriously afraid that indeed, I was alone in there.
I licked my lips, eyes following frantically all around me as if seeing everything for the very first time, mind executing different alternatives, wondering if there was something in that place that was remotely helpful to me, helpful to Harry.

I didn't dare to look in front of me, the nagging thought that I stayed for hours in there next to him, not helping him somehow was bothering me deeply; instead, I searched for anything inside the boxes, where I found rolled in ribbons of shiny colors, dried-out glittery twigs, tinseled bells and dusty ceramic figures, all of them bright polyester ornaments depicting holiday icons.
Sadness instilled an ache in my heart.
It was fucking useless.
There was nothing remotely close to a key or a clip to pick locks, only fabrics and toys.

Leaning forward, I grabbed what looked like a tablecloth from the box beside me and turned to wipe the line of blood from the side of Sean's head, touching his face carefully as if he was wide awake and alert.

"I don't know what to do," I told him. "Please tell me what to do..." I was helpless. "You always knew what to do..." I sat there, without thinking of anything but saving Harry and letting that thought settle in for the longest time, until an option flashed right through me, mixed with the sound of my voice. Maybe he had his phone with him or something, anything. "Fuck." I went for his jeans pockets first, not finding a single thing and I kept the search, turning his body around, my legs leveling up the weight against my only hand, and I didn't stop until he was facing down.

Sean's sidearm was tucked in the back of his jeans as if waiting for me to take it.

And I did, when I finally shook myself out of the stupor, pulling it out and spending a good ten minutes examining the unusual artifact, flat and still unmoving; felt like I was gripping my lifeline in my hand, figuring out there was a locking safety button right on the side.

I clicked it off, wondering if it really was charged and marveling the weight of it against my hand. I had no idea how to check if the gun was filled with bullets, so I just stared at it as I wondered how much of this did not felt right; it felt foreign and wrong, but I also needed to get the fuck out. No, I wasn't just staring at it, I was clutching it in my hands and inspecting the hell out of it—turning it over, looking inside, pointing it at the door, and then at one of the boxes.

An itchy feeling that had nothing to do with not trusting my only plan surrounded me as I wrapped the mouth of the sidearm with the bloody tablecloth, trying to muffle the sound as much as possible. I directed the tip of it, as close as it was physically possible, to the doorknob.

Resolution steadied my leveled hand as I aimed, hoping for the best, while my left index finger squeezed the trigger with a lot of effort. And I fired it.

A burn of light burst from the weapon's barrel, along with a choked out sound that filled the small room making me shut my eyes upon pulling the trigger, not wanting the image of my finger to know what shooting felt like or the hard force that made me lose balance at the same time I noticed the door lock hanging from one side.

I blinked, shocked, not believing what had just happened.

Please let him be alive.
I'll do anything as long as he's alive.

***