Time after incident (TAI): 97 hours 13 minutes
You feel a sharp tug against your upper arm, and your body twists from the momentum of the bullet impacting you. The crack of the gun still rings in your ears as you lose your footing and crash to the freezing asphalt. Adrenaline compensates for the pain and a ripple of shock runs through you as you struggle to stand. For a moment, you think the bullet's shock-wave had knocked you over, and that you yourself were unharmed. Unfortunately, the feeble hope is crushed when you glance down to your left and see the crimson red stain spreading down to your forearm. It felt like a white-hot stoker had been shoved into your biceps and had been twisted to tear the muscles surrounding. The intensity takes your breath away, yet makes you want to scream.
"There is no use in running, mon ami bête!" a heavily accented voice announced from behind you. His voice is strained, and panting is evident. Your right fist clenches until your knuckles turn white, and you resist the urge to punch him, simply because every shift in your left arm sends a jolt of agony through you. Bile rises in your throat and you struggle to swallow it down. You slowly turn to face him pressing your arm tightly against your side and doubling over slightly. You struggle for breath as you stare at the man who has been trying to kill you.
"True, you were very hard to catch, but the game of cat and mouse has to come to an end sometime," He continues, catching his breath and straightening his back. His brown hair is askew and his arm is bent at a funny angle from being hit by a car. You catch your reflection in his glasses, and only manage to focus long enough to examine what you see. Your sleeve is almost soaked and your skin shimmers from a thin sweat. Your attention is yanked away when he snaps up his gun again, pointing it right at your head. You feel like crying and screaming, but somehow you keep the emotions bottled. "It's going to end now, because I have a gun."
A sick sense of déjà vu floods you, and your eyes go blank for a moment as you remember the crazed patients retort to the weak denial of wanting to die. It's like a fuzzy TV with a bad antennae, you can make out the picture, but not the specifics. "Yeah, you do." he had declared, "You just don't have the nerve to actually do it. You just want it out of your control. Well, it is. 'Cause I've got a gun." You remember the panic that had taken hold of you as you realized, you didn't want to die. You had cried it out in terror. He had listened. You doubt the possibility of that now. You hear the gun click and somehow instincts take over.
Ducking you sprint toward the hospital weaving through the few cars that remained so late at night. A loud bang rings out and you hear glass shatter on the Honda next to you. You heart thunders in your ears, drowning out your panting. Every step jostles your arm, and you bit your lip so hard you can taste the iron and rust in your mouth. You gained a good lead and you can almost make out the desk at the entrance of the clinic.
"Merde!" you hear him spit faintly.
Sounds flood your ears as each step takes you closer to salvation. Adrenaline powers your every step and you almost forget the pain for a moment. The slapping of his feet against the concrete slow. You jump on the sidewalk and are seconds away from the door when you hear him shout with finality, "You are not safe! You're lucky Remy Hadley." You crash into the doors of the clinic to the incredulous stares of the doctors on duty. They move on with their work after a moment, giving you nothing more than a quick glance. It may have perplexed you at some other time, but not now. All rational thought seems to have left you and your instinct is flight. You struggle to run, settling for a light jog to the adjacent end.
Nausea settles in your stomach and you fight the urge to gag again. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, and you're getting dizzy from the blood you've lost. Tears prick your eyes from the agonizing sensation of a hook tearing through your flesh and into your bone. The pain permeates and it feels like it's spreading to your shoulder and neck with each jostle.
You will your body to go fast, but your feet are so heavy. You're so tired. The pain seems to push to unconsciousness instead of becoming more alert. The elevator seems like it's getting farther and farther away. Desperation grips at your heart and you can make your feet move fast enough. You curse your clumsiness as you legs and hands turn numb.
The floor surprises you when it swirls up to meet your cheek. Floppy hands do nothing to help as you try push yourself to a half kneeling, half standing position. You grab for the glass door handle to your left and try to push yourself up. Your arm screams and you cry out crashing to the ground once more. You feel pathetic and vulnerable, unable to do anything beyond struggling to stand. Spots start to appear in front of your eyes, blotting out portions of light. You hear a door somewhere near you open, and a surprised symphony of gasps.
"Let me help you," a woman offered. You can't muster up any response from your drained body. Numbness seems to spread like a disease, and you find your right arm to be unfeeling. The damned right arm you were depending on. It gives out under the weight of your upper body, unable to defeat gravity. Surprisingly, you don't receive a repeat performance with the floor. A pair- no, pairs- of hands had caught you, and were murmuring comforting nonsense in your ear. They ease you backwards, facing upwards. Their gasps are horrified as the see the red stain spreading on their preciously white floor.
"What happened?" that woman asked, halting the backwards movement, leaving your hair hanging in your face. A black hand presses a wad of gauze to your wound, and you whimper pitifully. Your head lolls back and you can feel your throat close as you stare at the spotless ceiling, littered with the widening black spots. A face blocks the rest of the light out.
You struggle to recognize him. It absorbs slowly, you take in the mussed gray hair, the scruff, and the sharp blue eyes. It's him, House. You feel the need to tell him so much, but you feel like you have so little time. You can feel yourself slipping away. Every drop of blood lost is an ounce of your spirit, which you have little left of.
His mouth parts in confusion, and he steps out of view before you hear him state, "Thirteen." His voice is surprised, as if that's all he feels for you. That you're just a surprise and mystery, something dispensable.
As if singers in an opera, their gasps are perfect in timing as they brush back you hair and look at your face. Someone clatters back, and that same woman utters, "My God."
Somehow, you find humor in that. It nags at you mind, something about her contradicts with that statement. Importance fades with the little mystery, taking the light with it. Urgency pushes you to talk through your cotton-like tongue and slack jaw. You manage to whisper, "House..."
His face- or you hope it's his face- hovers over yours, miles away. Purpose keep you alive a moment longer to relay everything you have to say, or everything you need to say. You had planned to tell so much to him. To ask so much from him. To know, why? To figure out the mystery of the plane, and the murders. He was always so good at that, you remember. You remember, God, how sweet that phrase is to say. You swallow repeatedly, managing to open your throat by a fraction.
"Save me..." you rasp. This isn't what you wanted to say. It isn't! Panic makes your heart race in it's defiant last stand. It's trying to go out with a bang. You feel your eyelids tingle. The light fades until you are immersed in darkness. You can't see anything. You can't feel anything. You can't move. I don't want to die! echoes through your head. Fear fills what's left of you and you're paralyzed, inside your own head.
Against all odds, your eyes inexplicably open. Just a fraction, enough to see you're alive, just a moment longer. Your head is turned to the side, and fate intervened. A rough hand is feeling your jugular, and you extend your right arm and point. If you could, you would have screamed in triumph, "It's you!" in utter victory.
Your eyes slip shut once more, and you just hope House watched long enough to see you discover your murderer.
AN: I crave constructive criticism. Correct my mistakes, and flame if it has a purpose. This is a rough draft/teaser/totally-unedited-raw-stuff for a story I'm considering. It's one of the shortest that would be written. Review please.
Thank you,
Little T