Even in the dark, Cameron's eyes immediately locked to House's, and they never let go. It was her lifeline - a calm blue sea of comfort, amidst a rough black sea of bruising hands on her body. Sweat had formed on the sides of her neck and face, and her soft, brown hair was sticking to it. The barrel of a silver revolver was smashed between Cameron's jawbone and the large, violent hand of 20-something gangster. The other large, violent hand had a crushing grip on her wrist.
By demand of the waving gun, House and Rachel were ushered off the court and onto the pavement leading up to it.
"Spread 'em," the black guy peered dangerously over at House, and motioned for him to move his legs apart.
"Can't. Bum leg." House made the mistake of forgetting to shave off the sarcasm, and correction was the next thing he felt. A swift foot shot up and kicked him dead-on in the wounded thigh. House crumpled to the ground as his gruff cry wailed out in misery. It was excruciating. He wanted to die. Everything was spinning and no coherent thoughts would come to his mind. All he wanted was to end it all, and now. "Shoot me," House breathed in agony through his teeth, his body curled in protection around his burning leg.
But all he was granted was another kick in the stomach, and his cell phone was knocked from his hand. He never would get to bring it to his ear, as the hoodlum stomped on the little, plastic phone and crushed it into shards of regret. "The docta, I presume," he mocked, remorselessly glowering down on the sight. Apparently, the word of House and his car had spread. He knelt to the ground, bringing Cameron with him, and kept a keen eye on Rachel. Shoving and poking at House's crumpled-up body, he felt the pocket on his sore leg for a car key. House whimpered at the touch, and the gangster ignored it, rolling him over and extracting the key from the other pocket of his jeans.
Cameron wanted to reach out and wipe the sweat from House's neck and forehead. She wanted to comfort him. She tried, but too soon was she jerked back up, as the guy left House's side to deal with Rachel. He dragged Cameron like a dog on a leash wherever he decided to move.
He managed to take Rachel's knife without cutting her or getting cut himself. Rachel was now defenseless. She wasn't used to the feeling, but it was serenely appropriate. First, a flimsy plastic x-ray had threatened her immortality; now a guy with a gun. A guy with a gun was only a sweet, red cherry atop her situation of utter helplessness.
Maybe she didn't have a week to live. Maybe she had a day. An hour. A few more minutes. And it was okay. An eerie peace crept over her.
Because there was only one thing left to do. Die. And she would do it gracefully.
Her mind snapped, and just like that, she was done. She was done wallowing in herself, in her illness. She was done thinking. She was done hoping and dreaming and wishing. This, here and now, was it. A gift. This was what she was here for, predestined or not. This was now her purpose. Her own well-being was nothing.
Channeling the perpetrator's thoughts, his feelings - her own thoughts, and her own feelings - she stepped forward. Cautious, but defiant. She channeled everything this moment would mean - everything it would mean a month from now when she was gone. This neighborhood; this stupid, screwed-up life; this vision of greatness and aspiration to change the world - it all came rushing, mercilessly, and a clarity so profound bound her captive. Or maybe loosed her free. Either way: for such a time as this.
Rachel stepped forward again. Her mind was spinning, and the flood gates were opening. All her numbing soul could feel was a cry of soothing undulance, a rhetorical meter . . . a poetic prose that she couldn't control.
It's cold.
This feeling.
She shivered and looked to the sky. It held life immortal. Single acts of kindness, and choices that made a difference, were written in the stars. There was even a star for her. But she didn't know it. She knew she was cold, and she knew it was raining. She knew it was dark.
Colder than this block of ice in your chest.
Colder than your pulse snapping.
Colder than your icy blood racing.
Colder than anything you ever felt for the past sixteen years of your life.
She lowered her head to gaze down the barrel of a gun, then to gaze into the eyes above it. Cameron was still. House un-crumpled himself. All attention rested on Rachel as she fought with visions of the future, and then as she lost.
Yet here you stand - cold metal in hand.
Dead body on the floor.
In your head - this war,
That never will end.
Because redemption is nowhere.
She saw it all from eyes that were not her own. Someone else's. Someone else, just as hopeless and helpless, street-hardened and soul-tortured.
She held a hand in the air, pointing a finger toward the sky like a gun, and cocked her thumb back. In a loud, dramatic whisper, "Pow! . . . . . . . . Pow!" she imitated the sound. It rang in the ears of all present - quietly, solemnly.
A thoughtful uncertainty glazed over the thug's expression, and his determined stance faltered, ever so slightly.
Again, Rachel saw the scene. She saw the future. She felt the regret, as if she'd pulled the trigger herself. The drugs had never affected her like this. Her eyes dilated, her fists clenched, her head spun a 360 circle.
It wasn't wrong!
It was right!
Don't back down.
Hold your fight.
She stepped forward again, stepping into the gun - still raised. The cold metal pressed tight against a droplet of sweat on her forehead.
Nobody knew what was happening. But Rachel did. Or she had. Damn this haze. She couldn't see straight. Either death was creeping in or, for the first time, she was living. Rachel tried to focus. She had seen this move done before, and she hoped she could pull it off. She needed to be closer.
She kissed the sky. "I'm not afraid to die . . . I'm not afraid to die."
"Good," the gangster lifted a thumb and cocked the hammer back. His face was set.
Cameron couldn't wriggle free, so she closed her eyes, tighter than she ever thought she could. House only wanted some control over the situation, and he wanted Cameron safe against his chest. And he wanted to wake up from this nightmare.
Just before the trigger was pulled -
"Wait," House ordered, trying to stall the inevitable any way he could. He had a feeling Rachel was about to make a move, and it was either self-sacrificing or incredible stupid. Probably both. Bravery wins no brownie points here. He found his cane and painfully pulled himself up from the ground. His leg was still burning, and his head was still spinning. "Look man, you can have the car . . ."
"I already have the car!" the thug corrected, raising his voice, and pressing the gun tighter against Rachel's forehead.
"Fine. You have it. So take it. Leave us here, and take the Corvette," House's voice was gentle and cautious, pleading. "We have no phone and no transportation, so you can't be followed."
"And the girl?" he demanded.
House looked from Cameron to Rachel, then back to Cameron. His breath caught in his chest. "Which girl?"
An evil, torturous grin crept across the gangster's face. "You tell me."
