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Through it all, I grit a practiced smile, making eye contact with the various reporters, using every ounce of energy I possess to keep myself upright.
As I’m about to disappear into the hotel, I pause in my tracks, my gaze locking with the same man as before. The same man whose familiar eyes sent an icy chill down my spine.
The same man who aimed a gun at me in a crowd of people.
The same man who fired that gun and would have killed me if it weren’t for Creed.
The same man who allegedly took his own life mere minutes after attempting to take mine.
Was Creed given bad information? Did they get the wrong guy?
I try to tell my legs to move, to put one in front of the other and run. Like earlier today, they refuse to take direction.
A surprised gasp erupts from the crowd as the man pulls out a gun and aims it at me.
Again.
And like before, I remain immobile until I’m tackled to the ground, a thunderous gunshot ringing through the air.
I don’t move for several long moments, expecting to feel Creed’s hands on my body as he lifts me to my feet.
But there’s nothing.
I peek my head up, confused when the hotel has disappeared, along with Creed and everyone else. Instead, I’m in the back seat of an SUV, everything dark, apart from the full moon shining in the sky.
Feeling like I’m losing my mind, I take in my surroundings, hoping to figure out what the hell is going on. As I do, I notice a body slumped over the steering wheel, the front of the car smashed into a large tree as smoke billows from the engine.
I’ve been here before. This is eerily similar to the scene I woke up to after the car crash that took Adam’s life. But it can’t be. He’s dead. He’s been dead for nine years.
Panic sets in and I reach for the handle, but the door won’t open, no matter how hard I try.
That’s when I hear it. The sound of liquid hitting the metal roof of the car, like a torrential downpour. But it’s not rain. Rain doesn’t smell like this.
I dart my eyes toward the window to see the same man from earlier watching with amusement. But this time, he’s not holding a gun.
He’s holding a match.
A smile curves his lips as he tosses it onto the ground, flames surrounding the car. I push against the door, to no avail. Smoke fills the compartment, the flames getting closer and closer. Sweat drips down my face and back, my lungs burning.
I scream for help as I continue kicking and pushing at the door, desperate for someone to hear me.
For anyone to hear me.
For anyone tohelpme.
But no one can.
I’m trapped in a prison of my own doing.
Defeated, I collapse onto the seat, wondering if this is how Adam felt in his final moments. I curl into a ball, staying as low as I can. Suddenly, someone calls my name. It’s faint but clear. Not foggy like everything else.
I part my chapped lips to shout for help, but a coughing fit seizes me, making me dizzy and weak.
And tired.
So damn tired.
I try to tell myself to stay awake. To fight the darkness. To fight for myself.
