Media vita in morte sumus. In the midst of our lives we die.
The scream woke him up, shattering the darkness. It was his voice, crying out through the nightmare, dragging the unconscious out into reality. Or maybe it was the other way around, dragging the reality into his unconscious. With wide eyes, he sat up, breathing hard, choking on the short gasps of air. His body trembled, trying to set itself right after the graphic scenes the unconscious mind kept replaying. The Devil had his claws wrapped around Bobby's heart and it just kept getting tighter, suffocating him. He sucked in more air, but it continued to get caught in his throat as his coughing made way for the tears and the crying. Cries that came from deep inside, the kind that made you double over as they sucked you dry from the inside out, the kind that left you raw and broken. He bent over forward, pressing his face into the bed, as if that would offer some bit of solace against the burn in his chest. His fingers clung to the blanket, desperately trying to hold on to something, instinctively pulling it closer to him, towards his center.
Consciously slowing his breathing, he sat up again and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing away the tears. Opening his eyes, he stared at the dark room. The smothering darkness in his apartment left him just as vulnerable to the memories as if he'd closed his eyes. Reaching over to the nightstand, he flicked on the lamp, flinching as his eyes adjusted to the light as it cast a warm yellow glow into the room, beating back some of the shadows.
He stared at his shaking hands, still able to feel her warm blood on them, coating them, making it impossible to hold on. Her soaked shirt stuck to her skin, but his hands kept slipping off the wound as he tried to apply pressure to it. Her blood was everywhere. He was kneeling in it, futilely trying to keep it from spilling from the hole in her chest while it ran freely from the entrance wound in her back. The vest had done nothing to stop the bullet. Magliocco wanted her dead and finding the means necessary to achieve that was an easy task for someone with the connections he had. It was simply finding the right opportunity.
The smell. Blood has a distinct smell, one that will never fade from memory, and a memory is all it takes to bring on the nausea. He unfolded his legs and dropped them over the side of the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold hard wood floor. He wandered into the bathroom and gripped the sink with both hands, staring into the mirror. Getting angry over it wasn't going to do him any good. But it was all he seemed able to do. He should have been able to protect her. Or save her. He'd let her down instead. Failed.
Her last words echoed in his head, leaving him feeling worthless. She had been depending on him to help her, to make sure she'd be okay. She clutched his hand, slick with her blood.
"I'm scared, Bobby." Over and over, it played, never relenting. The fear in her eyes was like nothing he'd seen from her before.
He gripped the sink harder, his knuckles going white. Straightening up, he stared in the mirror for a moment, feeling the anger and dropped his arms to his sides. His left hand clenched into a fist, the anger having nowhere to go. In one swift fluid motion, he punched the mirror, shattering the glass and his reflection. It was a release, but did nothing to help ease the agony. Little bits of glass fell away from the frame of the mirror, clattering into the sink and he braced himself on the rim again. The knuckles on his left hand were scratched; small drops of blood ran down his fingers. It was a crimson reminder, the visual trigger that started the tears again. He let go of the sink, covering his face with his hands and leaned against the wall. His breath caught in his throat as he slid to the floor.
"I'm sorry, Andy. I'm so sorry," he whispered around the sobs.