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I could feel the way my anxiety gripped inside me, taking the bit of air from my lungs, restricting me.
My hands shook, and the more I tried to regain control, the more they shook, causing rattles from the ice inside the pitcher. The need to get rid of the pitcher made me lower to the ground, and I placed the pitcher in the corner of the doorway.
With my knees close to my chest, I closed my eyes and inched my head closer to the small opening for any sounds. All I was greeted with was silence.
Don’t go inside, my mind screamed. But Martin was inside.
I stood and my body swayed from exhaustion, worry, and the unknown that hid behind the door.
I placed my trembling hand to the smooth feel of the barrier that concealed my fear, forced my hand to push the door open, and I took a step forward.
It was the mixed scent of sulfur and metal that hung inside the room. The same scent from the night a bullet fled from the chamber of the gun when the hammer fired, leaving only the smell of gunpowder behind. The same scent that clung to me as my life slipped away, but now it suffocated me with its death perfume.
Tears sprung in my eyes, my breathing shook, and I dared another step forward.
A cry fled at my sight.
I ran to Martin, but it was useless.
“Martin!” A silent yell stayed trapped in my throat, and I placed my index and middle finger to his neck. But as I looked at his opened and lifeless eyes, I knew he was gone.
His body was awkwardly slouched to the side as his back rested against the headboard. His dark sweater continued to discolor as blood rushed out of his body from two bullet wounds in his chest. I pulled his light brown hair back from his face while I quivered.
“I’m s-so sorry.” My cries became hiccups, and I lowered my eyes, unable to look at his dark green irises that held no life because of me.
That was when I noticed his hand hanging off the bed, opened. Below, a pen rested on the carpet. My eyes flew to the nightstand next to him. A hotel notepad laid inches away from falling with ink marks of the pen from the floor.
Martin had left me a note, but he wasn’t even able to finish signing his name.
He couldn’t have been killed too long ago, not when blood still ran from his body.
I had to move, I had to run.
But, how could I leave him in this room when he was dead because of me?
He died trying to protect me, but if I died too, what would his death mean?
Run.
I ripped the note from the pad, tucked it inside my purse, and walked away. But before I opened the door, I whispered, “I’m sorry” one last time and slipped out of the room.
My tears fell as I rushed to the elevator, and I continuously pushed the down button. My heart beat drummed with panic as I waited, keeping my eyes moving from one end of the hall to the other. Finally, the elevator doors opened. I wiped my eyes and turned, only to find a father and daughter watching me with furrowed brows.
When the elevator door closed, I kept my gaze in front of me. The man pulled the young girl closer to him at the corner of my eye.
“Are you okay? You look sad.” The innocence of her voice only made me more desperate to get to the main level and leave before they, too, got hurt. I didn’t respond, keeping my eyes locked on the obscured reflections of our silhouettes that bounced off the elevator door. I was too afraid to stain her pure mind with a memory of me. “It’s okay if you are, I get sad sometimes too.”
“Izy,” the man warned.
But all I saw was Martin. My emotion bubbling back made me look up to the numbers that lit as we descended the floors. Then the ding prompted the heavy doors to slide open, and I quickly left. I lowered my face, swung the hood over my head, and slowed my steps to match the busy lobby to keep unwanted attention.
I could almost feel the cold New York winter as I neared closer to the entrance and its grand glass doors.
Almost there.
My hands tingled and my heart spiked with each step I took.
Then I saw him.
