She was bleeding. She was shaking. She was stumbling, swaying like a drunk because she couldn't get her feet to move right and her chest felt hollow like a gaping wound. She stopped and rested against a wall, pressing her cheek against the rough brick just so she could feel something real.
The night was too warm. The street lamps smouldered like burning stars; their heavy neon glow filtering over the cracked pavement and shop windows like a heavy miasma, thick as honey. Cars sped down the road. Their lights flashed in her eyes and her vision swam. She took in a deep breath.
She needed to keep walking. Had to keep going. Needed to get somewhere safe. She'd promised him. He'd said. He'd said -
Her mind went blank. She shuddered. Froze.
"Best not to think," she whispered. But it was too late.
("Go," he hissed, gripping her wrist. His palm was slick with blood. "Go now. You know what to do.")
She slid to the ground. She stared blankly at the road as another car sped past in a whirr of noise and light. There were people walking past her: a woman with high heels and long dark hair. A business man who gave her a curious look, then moved on. A teenager with an orange jacket who didn't even glance her way. Maybe they thought she was homeless. Maybe they were too busy to help her. Maybe they didn't care.
She closed her eyes. She didn't realy care either.
("I can't," she said. She shook her head numbly, like a doll on a string, eyes blurred with unwanted tears. "I won't leave you.")
But.
("You will," he said, eyes calm and dark. Determined. "You promised me, Robin.")
He had.
("Go.")
She stood up carefully. She pressed one hand to the wall, taking each step slowly, as if she was afraid to fall. She hadn't realized how badly her legs were trembling. I can do this, she thought. I can.
After all, there was a long way to go yet.