Four and Twenty: Chapter 9
Disclaimer: I don't own Pretty Little Liars. All rights belong to Sara Shepard and ABC Family.
Crazyatbest: You'll get your full on fight soon, promise.
April 2017: Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol
Sometimes it hits like a car crash—blinding, and jarring, and twisted. Sometimes, it's a bullet—swift, relatively painless, and straight to the point. Other times, it's peaceful—occurring without pain, without prior knowledge, without fear. But regardless of how it happens, death is always a bitter blow to those that live. It's gut wrenching, and tragic, and sickening, and brings even the strongest of people to their knees. It provides little closure, leaving behind only a why and a how—and there are times when even those questions can't be answered.
But when death is unexpected, when it knocks upon someone's door unexpectedly, it can be crippling. No one, no one sane anyway, walks through life thinking I am going to die today. No one rationalizes when and where they will die. Everyone assumes that they will live to a ripe old age, watch their children grow, and then their grandchildren. That's not how life works though.
Friday, April seventh, began normally enough—as most days do. The sun rose in the east, cabs honked and jammed the streets by eight am, and four unsuspecting young people set off for their jobs, each and every one of them completely unaware that come the next rush hour, their quartet would be down to a trio.
Paul Fitz considered himself luckier than most. He'd grown up in a good home, with loving parents and a supportive older brother. He'd gotten into medical school, was engaged to the most amazing girl on the planet, and was living quite comfortably on the fourteenth floor of an apartment complex in the Big Apple.
And that luck had never failed him, until that fateful April afternoon. His lunch break went routinely enough—chug a Gatorade, scarf down a sandwich, and head back to the emergency room for rounds. The life of a medical student certainly wasn't glamorous, but it was fascinating. He'd learned more in his five months at Mount Sinai then he had from reading the hundreds of textbooks his professors had given him. Each new day brought a new medical mystery, a new technique to learn, a new life to save.
That's why when a code blue came over his new pager; a jolt of excitement shot right through his nervous system, and sent a rush of adrenaline directly to his heart. Code blue meant critical. Code blue meant thinking on your feet and doing whatever it took to save a life. Code blue meant becoming someone's hero.
Paul rushed out to meet the ambulance with half a dozen other students and their mentor, Dr. Sanborn. He was still tying his scrubs when the vehicle pulled into the bay, and he reluctantly allowed a few of the others to rush past him and greet the paramedics.
"Too late…car crash…poor girl…cab's totaled…driver's just fine."
He only caught snippets of the conversation, but it was enough to let the heavy weight of death settle in the pit of his stomach. She hadn't even been a patient yet, but each human life lost was a precious gift that could never be brought back. Paul moved aside for them to wheel the stretcher by. Even after weeks of working in the E.R., the gore of accidents still sent him reeling and left his stomach churning. His eyes drifted down towards the ground, but a flash of light caught his gaze. He glanced up just in time to see the glitter of a diamond ring on the woman's left hand. It looked familiar, and as a lock of blonde hair whipped slightly in the wind he knew why—he'd picked it out himself. The girl from the car crash, the woman who'd arrived too late to save was Hanna.
"Wait!"
Everyone turned to look at him in surprise, and Dr. Sanborn placed a hand upon his shoulder.
"What is it, son?"
"Her name? Do you know what her name is?"
"No," said a paramedic, "that's what the next step is."
"Don't bother." Paul choked back a sob and moved towards the stretcher. "I already know who it is. Her name's Hanna, she's my fiancée."
Telling someone that they've lost a loved one is never an easy task. There's no manual of how to do it, no right way to phrase it, no one word that makes the tragedy any easier. But Paul Fitz, the lucky one, had been gifted with that task.
He was home by two that afternoon. He'd been sent home by Dr. Sanborn. "There's nothing you can do now, Paul. Go home, we'll take it from here."
So he had. He'd come home, crumpled up on the couch and cried like a baby. At some point he must've fallen asleep, for when he next came to it was dark out and the front door was being unlocked. For a brief moment he wondered if it had all been some kind of horrid nightmare. The sight of a plastic bag containing Hanna's phone, wallet, and engagement ring were reminders that in fact her death was quite real, and that his wishes of a dream were futile.
Aria stepped in seconds later, a cheery grin on her face and a stack of newspapers in her hand.
"Paul! You're home early."
He didn't answer her, but cradled his head in his hands and stared at the knots of the wooden floor.
"Paul, what's wrong?" When he didn't reply, she set her stuff on the kitchen table and perched on the arm of the couch next to him.
"Did something happen at work?" Still no response. "Paul, you're scaring me. What's going on?"
He took a shuddery breath, and stared at his best friend through red-rimmed eyes. "Aria—there was umm—Hanna—Hanna's dead."
And then he lost it again. Tears and sobs and moans. Paul Fitz, golden child, Mr. always-perfect-always-put-together, lost it. He buried his face in Aria's lap, and she naturally slid a hand along the length of his back, her palm moving in small circles over the warm fabric of his t-shirt.
"Hanna-what wait? You're joking. This is really sick, you know that?"
"No, Aria." He glanced up at her again and pointed a trembling finger towards the sealed bag on the coffee table. "The E.R. and the car crash, and oh God! Hanna's gone, Aria. Hanna's gone."
Aria's hand stilled. No tears came, no words, no nothing. She felt numb, like this was some big charade and at any minute now Hanna was going to come skipping out of the bedroom, blonde curls bouncing and lips glossed perfectly. But she didn't. Aria waited and waited and waited for the gotcha moment. It never came.
She gathered Paul into her arms, her forehead dropping to his shoulder and her hands fisting in the material of his shirt. There was nothing to be said, nothing that could be said.
Her best friend, the girl she called a sister, was gone. It seemed surreal. They'd shared a bagel over breakfast, half with strawberry cream cheese, the other with butter. She'd poured Hanna orange juice; let her borrow her curling iron less than twelve hours prior. And now, she'd never be able to do those things again. With a anguished sob, her tears finally came, the wetness smearing her mascara down her cheeks and staining the white collar of her blouse.
Ezra Fitz worked late most Friday nights. It was easier to get the work done in one afternoon, rather than procrastinate for two days and be forced to do it all Sunday evenings. This Friday was like all the other ones. He stayed until nearly nine, finished all his papers, and left in a happy mood—ready to curl up in bed with his girlfriend and laze the weekend away.
He knew something was wrong the minute he opened the front door. The apartment was quiet, all the lights save one lamp in the living room were off, and the TV wasn't on. He couldn't recall Aria mentioning anything about going out—nor Hanna or Paul for that matter. Worried, he set his stuff down by the front door, toed of his shoes and padded towards Aria's bedroom. She wasn't in there either.
"Aria?"
No answer.
Concerned, he checked the bathroom, the kitchen, and his bedroom. There was still no sign of her. Finally, just when he was about to start panicking, a pale and puffy faced Aria emerged from Paul and Hanna's bedroom. She attempted a faint smile when she saw him, but the gesture fell flat.
"Aria, what's wrong?"
She shook her head, and he watched two lone tears create parallel tracks down her cheeks. "Ezra." He'd never heard her so broken, so desperate sounding—even after all her heartbreak over Paul.
Sobbing, she wrapped her arms around him tightly and buried her face in his neck. Tears soaked through the thin linen of his button down shirt in seconds, and he held her close to him with a fierce strength, wanting nothing more than to protect her from whatever was causing her so much pain.
"Aria, you're scaring me. What's happened?"
She gulped, though the sound was more like dry heave, and lifted her watery gaze to his. "It's Hanna…Ezra, she's dead."