Chain of Darkness
Chapter Nineteen--
**********
A/N: Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! I'm glad you like this story :) Just want to let you know that I'm writing as fast as I can and the action is coming up very soon! Bear with me here... ;)
**********
Every light in his apartment shone brightly, warding off the dark shadows but helping to ease his fears only slightly. The deafening silence that enveloped him was unbearably nerve-racking.
Bosco sat on his bed, his back leaning against the wooden headboard, trying to forget what had quite possibly been one of the worst days of his life. The memories were so vivid still, the sights and sounds ever-present.
Watching Marty Nash die earlier had been positively traumatic, causing every fear and emotion to heighten considerably, and the burning, sour sensation of dread in his stomach to gnaw painfully away at him. The bullet that had killed Marty could have very well been meant for him. He could have died today, the fact that he didn't was pure luck.
He still hadn't stopped shaking, his body stressed and strained from the last few weeks, the added trauma of the day causing his jumpy nerves to take over. Every second since the shooting he thought of Marty, how terrible the day had been. He thought of all of the blood, all of the pain he'd felt. He thought of how lucky he was... Or was he really lucky? Was it luck that the bullet hit Marty instead of him? Was he lucky that he got to live a few more days in constant fear, with relentless grief and guilt over the fact that he was miraculously spared and his friend killed? Was that really luck?
The answers evaded him. He would have to live with what had happened. Right now, he almost wished that if he was indeed going to die, death would come now and take him, sparing him the added torment that every day brought.
Faith had driven him home hours ago, leaving him off with a soft, "G'night, Bos," before returning to her family. She had been striving not to cry again, he could tell. Her lack of words coming from the immense doubt and foreboding that had filled the car with its heavy presence. To say anything comforting would be lying flat-out, they both knew. He took the long look she gave him as his only consolation. It was a look of understanding and pity, heartache and fear, mixed with the beautiful glimmer of devotion and care. She loved him. She cared for him. That one look was enough to almost send him once again into tears.
His frame of mind changed though, after he'd watched her leave, turning back again to the terrified anxiousness that constantly haunted him. Bosco had tried hard not to panic as he'd climbed the three long flights of stairs to his apartment, each creak of the wooden slats making him startle slightly, his body and mind on sensory overload.
His life had turned into something that he could have never imagined, something you only hear about happening in far-off places, something that only happens in the movies.
Coming home to his empty apartment had done nothing but remind him how alone he was; how he could be murdered in cold blood and nobody would even know until he didn't show up for work the next day. The morbidity of the thought was all too realistic for him right now.
Once again, he was in for a sleepless night of agony, hours of tense muscles and chronic worry. Once again, he would have to face the aching, desperate loneliness of walking into an empty apartment-with no hand to hold, no comforting arms to rest on his back and give him security
His fridge-full of beer hadn't tempted him, even though his first impulse was to take the edge off with half of a six-pack. He knew his queasy stomach wouldn't allow alcohol to burn away the dread, but only make the dull ache more prominent.
After a quick shower, he'd crawled into bed to try and claim a few hours of sleep, but the relentless uneasiness he suffered would not allow any such thing. Instead, he sat wide-awake on his bed, clutching his loaded off-duty gun in his shaky hands and intently listening for anything anomalous.
"Good God", he whispered to himself, four long hours into his vigil. "This is no way to live. I'm scared half to death, like a little boy afraid of the boogie monster. Snap out of it, Bosco..."
Unfortunately, his will to be brave and fearless didn't overpower the ensuing vulnerability that kept him awake and alert until well after dawn.
**********
Faith closed her eyes but she couldn't rid herself of the unbearably vivid visions that danced before her. Everything she had witnessed that day was haunting her dreams and plaguing her with horrible validity.
Beside her, Fred was sound asleep. Exhaustion had caused him to long forget the acute panic he'd felt when his wife had sobbed out her day on his shoulder.
The shock of another murder, this one involving his wife, had made him livid but deeply troubled at the same time. Although he wished it with all his being, he knew there was no way he could talk Faith into staying home. He unfortunately knew from past experiences, namely September Eleventh, that the NYPD stuck together in every situation. The more severe the catastrophe, the more will they had to complete their duty and show up for work the next day.
Right now, Fred wanted nothing more then to take his wife up in his arms and flee from the evil that pursued her, but all he could do was comfort her and pray fervently to God every waking moment of every day for her safety.
But he knew that his efforts wouldn't be enough. They would never be enough…...
**********
The blackness was impossibly deep, a dark a black hole. He could feel pain engulfing his entire being, but the frightening darkness made it impossible for him to understand where it was coming from. A long moment passed as he tried to focus.
He could barely feel his chest rising and falling, forcing him to concentrate on the numb feeling. As long as he was still breathing, Ty figured he was alive, even if he couldn't move an inch or open his eyes.
There was something in his mouth impending his speech and something else holding his eyelids closed.
A sudden rush of panic seized him, and everything in him screamed for his body to move, for him to cry out, but the heavy numbness of his body wouldn't cooperate.
He could hear the steady, monotonous beeping of monitors, the rhythmic whooshing of air, and the soft sound of soothing voices. The voices sounded strangely familiar but he couldn't understand them; they made no sense at all as he focused entirely on the object obstructing his airway.
His body, finally beginning to fall into sync with his racing mind, allowed his reflexes to kick in and cause him to gag instinctively on the object stuck in his throat. Hot tears sprang into his eyes, still held shut by an unseen influence, and his hands ached to remove whatever was making him choke. The voices grew stronger, but he ignored the indecipherable babble and brought his hand up to get rid of what was in his mouth.
Concentrating all of his efforts on the task, he pulled his right palm towards his face. A stinging sensation and a strong hand forced his searching fingers back down to the cotton fabric beneath them before they had lifted even an inch.
"Ty?" He understood the voices now, someone calling his name. "Ty, it's okay. You have a tube in your throat to help you breathe."
Oh, that's what it was.
The mention of the tube only made him gag again and feel sick. Something was very wrong with him. What had happened? He struggled against his convulsing muscles, trying desperately to make them stop their reflexive pulsing.
The crash, he thought. He had survived the crash.
Or had he?
A hand rested on his shoulder, warm and gentle. He could feel other hands probing him, making his aching body throb in excruciating pain. He tried to cry out, forgetting for a moment in the intense, burning pain that he couldn't speak. Again he gagged, the rough tube scraping violently against his esophagus.
Please stop, he begged the hands silently, screwing up his face in anguish. Please stop...
A few agonizing seconds passed before his weary body gave up fighting the pain and slipped easily back into the black hole of unconsciousness.
**********
Sully stood stoically by his partner's side and watched as he struggled and choked against the respirator tube. Ty was using every ounce of strength he had to fight the very thing that was keeping him alive.
The doctor was probing his torso, asking him questions about the pain, but it was obvious he had no idea what was going on around him, his face contorted into a twisted grimace of agony. Sully, who's heart had leapt just a few minutes ago at the sight of his partner's first movement in days, now felt sick to his stomach as he watched him slip away yet again.
"Doctor?" Sully asked quietly a moment later, his deep voice almost a whisper. He couldn't find the words to ask what his mind screamed at him. Was Ty in a coma again? Was he a…vegetable? The thought was too much to bear. Sully felt himself holding his breath as he waited for the verdict.
The doctor checked the monitors and machines, wires and tubes, before exhaling deeply. "Well, I can't really say too much, Officer. It's too early. The fact that he seemed to have regained consciousness is very good, although I don't know the extent of the damage the head trauma caused. He still has swelling in his brain and right now its really touch-and-go..."
"He did wake up, then?" Sully ventured hopefully. "Does that mean he's asleep now?"
"Well, it appears that he did wake up, but I'm afraid that he's slipped back into an unconscious state. Perhaps a coma again, I really won't know for a while," she stated while she adjusted Ty's IV drip. "Listen, Officer, I have a few more patients I have to see, but I'll be back soon to check up on him, okay? Just call for a nurse if he wakes up again." She smiled grimly before replacing his medical chart into the holder on the door and closing it quietly behind her.
Sully heaved a sigh and raked his fingers through his thick, brown hair, fighting against the sinking feelings of despair. He carefully slipped his hand once again into his partner's palm and squeezed it gently. "Ty? If you can hear me, you gotta fight this. Okay? You gotta fight..."
The humming of the machines drowned out his next words; the whispered prayers, only for God to hear. "Oh, God, make him be okay. Make him okay..."
**********
Bosco stared blankly at the Lieutenant as he briefed them for another day on the streets. His mind was a million miles away, straining to stay awake after only thee or four hours of rest. What Lieu had to say was inconsequential now anyway. Nothing had changed since yesterday, an unknown predator still was stalking them, and from the looks of things they wouldn't be catching him anytime soon.
Bosco shifted his gaze to his hands and uncurled his fingers from the fist they had been in, silently counting the murders as he chanted the deceased's names in his head. He winced as the number of still-curled fingers diminished quickly. Barry, Jacobsen, Moretti, Gusler, Nash... That made five...six, if you counted Ty -- an astronomical number. Bosco stared at his fingers and they glared back, taunting him, "You could be number seven."
He uncurled another finger, adding himself to the list. His eyes widened, terrified at the sight. No...
Faith's voice snapped him quickly out of his weariness-induced delusional reverie, "You ready, Bos?"
"Yeah," he sighed as he quickly pushed his chair back.
You're going crazy, he told himself, still frightened. Focus, Boscorelli, focus…
**********
TBC... Tell me what you think... Please? ;)
Chapter Nineteen--
**********
A/N: Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! I'm glad you like this story :) Just want to let you know that I'm writing as fast as I can and the action is coming up very soon! Bear with me here... ;)
**********
Every light in his apartment shone brightly, warding off the dark shadows but helping to ease his fears only slightly. The deafening silence that enveloped him was unbearably nerve-racking.
Bosco sat on his bed, his back leaning against the wooden headboard, trying to forget what had quite possibly been one of the worst days of his life. The memories were so vivid still, the sights and sounds ever-present.
Watching Marty Nash die earlier had been positively traumatic, causing every fear and emotion to heighten considerably, and the burning, sour sensation of dread in his stomach to gnaw painfully away at him. The bullet that had killed Marty could have very well been meant for him. He could have died today, the fact that he didn't was pure luck.
He still hadn't stopped shaking, his body stressed and strained from the last few weeks, the added trauma of the day causing his jumpy nerves to take over. Every second since the shooting he thought of Marty, how terrible the day had been. He thought of all of the blood, all of the pain he'd felt. He thought of how lucky he was... Or was he really lucky? Was it luck that the bullet hit Marty instead of him? Was he lucky that he got to live a few more days in constant fear, with relentless grief and guilt over the fact that he was miraculously spared and his friend killed? Was that really luck?
The answers evaded him. He would have to live with what had happened. Right now, he almost wished that if he was indeed going to die, death would come now and take him, sparing him the added torment that every day brought.
Faith had driven him home hours ago, leaving him off with a soft, "G'night, Bos," before returning to her family. She had been striving not to cry again, he could tell. Her lack of words coming from the immense doubt and foreboding that had filled the car with its heavy presence. To say anything comforting would be lying flat-out, they both knew. He took the long look she gave him as his only consolation. It was a look of understanding and pity, heartache and fear, mixed with the beautiful glimmer of devotion and care. She loved him. She cared for him. That one look was enough to almost send him once again into tears.
His frame of mind changed though, after he'd watched her leave, turning back again to the terrified anxiousness that constantly haunted him. Bosco had tried hard not to panic as he'd climbed the three long flights of stairs to his apartment, each creak of the wooden slats making him startle slightly, his body and mind on sensory overload.
His life had turned into something that he could have never imagined, something you only hear about happening in far-off places, something that only happens in the movies.
Coming home to his empty apartment had done nothing but remind him how alone he was; how he could be murdered in cold blood and nobody would even know until he didn't show up for work the next day. The morbidity of the thought was all too realistic for him right now.
Once again, he was in for a sleepless night of agony, hours of tense muscles and chronic worry. Once again, he would have to face the aching, desperate loneliness of walking into an empty apartment-with no hand to hold, no comforting arms to rest on his back and give him security
His fridge-full of beer hadn't tempted him, even though his first impulse was to take the edge off with half of a six-pack. He knew his queasy stomach wouldn't allow alcohol to burn away the dread, but only make the dull ache more prominent.
After a quick shower, he'd crawled into bed to try and claim a few hours of sleep, but the relentless uneasiness he suffered would not allow any such thing. Instead, he sat wide-awake on his bed, clutching his loaded off-duty gun in his shaky hands and intently listening for anything anomalous.
"Good God", he whispered to himself, four long hours into his vigil. "This is no way to live. I'm scared half to death, like a little boy afraid of the boogie monster. Snap out of it, Bosco..."
Unfortunately, his will to be brave and fearless didn't overpower the ensuing vulnerability that kept him awake and alert until well after dawn.
**********
Faith closed her eyes but she couldn't rid herself of the unbearably vivid visions that danced before her. Everything she had witnessed that day was haunting her dreams and plaguing her with horrible validity.
Beside her, Fred was sound asleep. Exhaustion had caused him to long forget the acute panic he'd felt when his wife had sobbed out her day on his shoulder.
The shock of another murder, this one involving his wife, had made him livid but deeply troubled at the same time. Although he wished it with all his being, he knew there was no way he could talk Faith into staying home. He unfortunately knew from past experiences, namely September Eleventh, that the NYPD stuck together in every situation. The more severe the catastrophe, the more will they had to complete their duty and show up for work the next day.
Right now, Fred wanted nothing more then to take his wife up in his arms and flee from the evil that pursued her, but all he could do was comfort her and pray fervently to God every waking moment of every day for her safety.
But he knew that his efforts wouldn't be enough. They would never be enough…...
**********
The blackness was impossibly deep, a dark a black hole. He could feel pain engulfing his entire being, but the frightening darkness made it impossible for him to understand where it was coming from. A long moment passed as he tried to focus.
He could barely feel his chest rising and falling, forcing him to concentrate on the numb feeling. As long as he was still breathing, Ty figured he was alive, even if he couldn't move an inch or open his eyes.
There was something in his mouth impending his speech and something else holding his eyelids closed.
A sudden rush of panic seized him, and everything in him screamed for his body to move, for him to cry out, but the heavy numbness of his body wouldn't cooperate.
He could hear the steady, monotonous beeping of monitors, the rhythmic whooshing of air, and the soft sound of soothing voices. The voices sounded strangely familiar but he couldn't understand them; they made no sense at all as he focused entirely on the object obstructing his airway.
His body, finally beginning to fall into sync with his racing mind, allowed his reflexes to kick in and cause him to gag instinctively on the object stuck in his throat. Hot tears sprang into his eyes, still held shut by an unseen influence, and his hands ached to remove whatever was making him choke. The voices grew stronger, but he ignored the indecipherable babble and brought his hand up to get rid of what was in his mouth.
Concentrating all of his efforts on the task, he pulled his right palm towards his face. A stinging sensation and a strong hand forced his searching fingers back down to the cotton fabric beneath them before they had lifted even an inch.
"Ty?" He understood the voices now, someone calling his name. "Ty, it's okay. You have a tube in your throat to help you breathe."
Oh, that's what it was.
The mention of the tube only made him gag again and feel sick. Something was very wrong with him. What had happened? He struggled against his convulsing muscles, trying desperately to make them stop their reflexive pulsing.
The crash, he thought. He had survived the crash.
Or had he?
A hand rested on his shoulder, warm and gentle. He could feel other hands probing him, making his aching body throb in excruciating pain. He tried to cry out, forgetting for a moment in the intense, burning pain that he couldn't speak. Again he gagged, the rough tube scraping violently against his esophagus.
Please stop, he begged the hands silently, screwing up his face in anguish. Please stop...
A few agonizing seconds passed before his weary body gave up fighting the pain and slipped easily back into the black hole of unconsciousness.
**********
Sully stood stoically by his partner's side and watched as he struggled and choked against the respirator tube. Ty was using every ounce of strength he had to fight the very thing that was keeping him alive.
The doctor was probing his torso, asking him questions about the pain, but it was obvious he had no idea what was going on around him, his face contorted into a twisted grimace of agony. Sully, who's heart had leapt just a few minutes ago at the sight of his partner's first movement in days, now felt sick to his stomach as he watched him slip away yet again.
"Doctor?" Sully asked quietly a moment later, his deep voice almost a whisper. He couldn't find the words to ask what his mind screamed at him. Was Ty in a coma again? Was he a…vegetable? The thought was too much to bear. Sully felt himself holding his breath as he waited for the verdict.
The doctor checked the monitors and machines, wires and tubes, before exhaling deeply. "Well, I can't really say too much, Officer. It's too early. The fact that he seemed to have regained consciousness is very good, although I don't know the extent of the damage the head trauma caused. He still has swelling in his brain and right now its really touch-and-go..."
"He did wake up, then?" Sully ventured hopefully. "Does that mean he's asleep now?"
"Well, it appears that he did wake up, but I'm afraid that he's slipped back into an unconscious state. Perhaps a coma again, I really won't know for a while," she stated while she adjusted Ty's IV drip. "Listen, Officer, I have a few more patients I have to see, but I'll be back soon to check up on him, okay? Just call for a nurse if he wakes up again." She smiled grimly before replacing his medical chart into the holder on the door and closing it quietly behind her.
Sully heaved a sigh and raked his fingers through his thick, brown hair, fighting against the sinking feelings of despair. He carefully slipped his hand once again into his partner's palm and squeezed it gently. "Ty? If you can hear me, you gotta fight this. Okay? You gotta fight..."
The humming of the machines drowned out his next words; the whispered prayers, only for God to hear. "Oh, God, make him be okay. Make him okay..."
**********
Bosco stared blankly at the Lieutenant as he briefed them for another day on the streets. His mind was a million miles away, straining to stay awake after only thee or four hours of rest. What Lieu had to say was inconsequential now anyway. Nothing had changed since yesterday, an unknown predator still was stalking them, and from the looks of things they wouldn't be catching him anytime soon.
Bosco shifted his gaze to his hands and uncurled his fingers from the fist they had been in, silently counting the murders as he chanted the deceased's names in his head. He winced as the number of still-curled fingers diminished quickly. Barry, Jacobsen, Moretti, Gusler, Nash... That made five...six, if you counted Ty -- an astronomical number. Bosco stared at his fingers and they glared back, taunting him, "You could be number seven."
He uncurled another finger, adding himself to the list. His eyes widened, terrified at the sight. No...
Faith's voice snapped him quickly out of his weariness-induced delusional reverie, "You ready, Bos?"
"Yeah," he sighed as he quickly pushed his chair back.
You're going crazy, he told himself, still frightened. Focus, Boscorelli, focus…
**********
TBC... Tell me what you think... Please? ;)