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Pop.
My ears ring. Roch appears above me, yanking the heaviness aside. I turn my face the other way, wiping the warm liquid from my eyes. The man with the tattoo pushes to his feet, stumbling as he pulls a gun. I want to tell Roch. Scream. Warn him. But my voice is gone. I look at Roch. He throws someone’s jacket over me.
Pop.
He kneels. Roch. Hits the floor sideways.
“What the fuck?” someone says from the door.
The man with the tattoo presses a hand on his shoulder. Blood gushes through his fingers. “The cocksucker fucking shot me. I think the bullet went right through.”
“You’re pissing blood. We better get you to a doctor.” The newcomer looks at me, head tilted. “She dead?”
“Just about. She won’t see the morning.”
“Want me to finish her?”
The man with the tattoo spits on my face. “Nah. Let her suffer. It’ll send a stronger message.”
The other one swings a rifle over his shoulder and drapes an arm around the man with the tattoo, helping him to the door. They vanish into the darkness, letting the cold in, and I float away.
When I wake up again, my mouth is so dry I can’t swallow. I’m aching everywhere. My memory is gone, unable to fit the pieces together. I’m lying on the floor. My lower body is naked, my shredded yoga pants discarded on the side. Angelo’s jacket, the one I pulled on earlier, covers my chest. I don’t know who took it off.
I push up on my elbows, nearly passing out from the pain. A puddle of blood pools between my wide-spread legs. It’s not the blood from the bodies around me. It’s mine.
I turn my face and look for the phone. It’s lying in pieces next to the table. Crushed. They found it.
When I sit up, I nearly vomit. The pain is everywhere, but it’s the worst in my head. I look at their faces. Roch lies on his side next to me with his knees bent. His eyes are closed. He appears strange, like a grown man sleeping in a fetal position.
Reaching over, I feel his pulse. I think there’s something. I may be wrong.
I grip his shoulder and shake him. “Roch.”
Nothing.
Blood colors his sweater around his midriff. I feel his pocket for a phone. Moving hurts so much that I break out in a sweat.
Empty.
I cry out in agony as I use all my strength to push him onto his back so I can search his other pocket.
Same.
They took his phone before they left.
I think I’m dying. I know I am. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to live. A wave of nausea builds inside me as I get on my hands and feet. I have to get up or I’m dead. A sick feeling pushes up in my throat. Saliva pools on my tongue. When my body convulses and I empty my stomach, the hell reaches a new crescendo. My head feels as if it’s about to split down the middle. The cramping of my womb folds me double. My ribs protest with every breath I take, so I inhale slowly and shallowly.
Beneath all the physical torture, there’s a much worse pain, something irreparable that threatens to break through the surface. I don’t think about it now. If I do, I’ll never make it onto my feet.
Using the table for support, I clutch the jacket in one hand and drag myself into an upright position. I want to be sick again, so I try to inhale and exhale as much as the pain in my chest allows. Wetness runs down my thighs. I look down. Blood. Too much blood.
I don’t know where I get the strength from to pull on the jacket and to walk to the door. With every step I take, exhaustion threatens to force me back to my knees. Blissful nothingness pulls at me again. It’s so tempting, but I can’t give in. I can’t stop. I can’t lie down and drift away.
One step at a time.
I’m still wearing the sneakers.
I stop in the open door, bent double. I’m shivering but not only from the cold outside. The cold is everywhere. It’s in my bones and in my core. In my heart. Yet something burns underneath the ice, something I can’t let out now. Hatred. Anger. Terrible grief.
