I don't own the characters or the events of Rizzoli and Isles.
Red. It was all red. Her hands, her arms, her clothes, and somehow it had spread to her face (a red smudge here, a small red line there), and she imagined the red was beginning to stain her hair. Perhaps it would make its way up to her scalp and stain her roots.
But it was nothing. Nothing compared to the red on her friend, the red coming from her friend.
Her friend, her best friend, truly her only friend, had been on the ground in a killer's embrace. When she had burst out from the doors of the screaming police station (screaming from the alarms, from fear, from the dead and wounded within its walls) she had screamed and cried and yelled, and she had run to her friend's red body, and a thousand years of medical training had never prepared her for this. What good was knowing how to determine the cause of death when all she wanted to do was keep her friend alive?
"Somebody get an ambulance!" Hurried talk, worried talk, sirens in the distance.
She covered the wound with both hands pressure to the wound stop the bleeding, begging the red to stop pouring out from her friend. Her friend winced, and then exhaled, and then slipped away to the place where dreams go during the day. Her face crumbled, and knee-deep in red, keeping both hands on the body – on her friend – she moved her crying face close to her friend's face.
"Please," she whispered, begging helplessly with the voice of a young child. Queen of the Dead, they called her, but a beggar to the living it seemed.
"Please. Don't die."
