Hello everyone,
I am guessing by now that you understand the importance of the warning before the prologue. Those warning will apply throughout this entire fiction, without exception.
I must reassure you that all chapters won't be as heavy as the first ones, but healing is a process and this story is a part of it.
Feel free to leave constructive comments/reviews, but please keep in mind that my battle against depression is VERY real.
Enjoy your reading,
Pavs.
Chapter one:
He could feel his heart beat in his temples as he smashed that guitar again and again.
"Hey brother, who's counting?" He'd said to Barney with a fucking smile at that.
Well, he certainly did and the numbers didn't match his heart standards so much as they matched his need to not feel lonely. Needs that were numbed with countless warm bodies that always left him cold-hearted. Well, he hadn't made a real effort in a while, picking up women out of his league or emotionally unavailable so that he could give himself the excuse that it was their fault instead of his.
Because as expressive as his art was, he was not one to open up lightly. He'd hid that fact pretty well with flashy clothes, jewelry, women and by always being there to help and listen to those in need. There were so many people connected to him because of his work and he'd been so good at networking that nobody ever noticed how fucking closed up he was when it came to the deep stuff.
Not when it came to others, of course. Only when it was about him. Maybe that was the problem. He dealt with so much hurt, pain and heartbreak from his jobs as a soldier, mercenary and even as a tattoo artist that he'd closed up in the hopes that it wouldn't happen to him.
But it did anyway, every time he let himself feel attached to a new team member that never came back or a victim that he'd had to help. He loved too hard too easily and it was going to be the death of him.
He took a deep breath before he decided to take his coat and go out for a walk. The guys wouldn't be back from Vilena anytime soon, so nobody would wonder where the fuck he was. He wandered through the streets as a faint smog seemed to linger. There had been storms not so long ago and he was relieved that the air outside hadn't been as heavy as the day before.
He was entering a park near his place when he heard a bottle shatter to the ground. He looked in the direction of the sound and froze as he saw a young woman looking absently at her bloody arm. He walked faster as he noticed that her other arm was bleeding too and then ran as he saw her close her eyes to go up the rail.
He jumped without thinking.
He couldn't see shit in those dark waters, but he felt as though he knew exactly how deep he had to go to reach her. He grabbed her and swam back to the surface, pushing through the water with a desperate need for oxygen. He finally managed to bring her to the dock as his muscles were aching and his breath was running out again. He pulled her out of the water and as the adrenaline replaced his tiredness, began to try and revive her.
He was way too aware of the blood still pouring from her arms and the taste of alcohol on her lips as he frantically tried to make her breath again. Time was running out as fast as his energy and he screamed.
He fucking screamed for help, not knowing if it was for her or for him as tears were running down his cheeks while his memories from another lifetime made the marina suspiciously look like a bridge in Bosnia.
He thought he'd lost her when she finally began coughing. As if on cue, a security guard came running towards them, looking out of breath too and bearing a flashlight and emergency kit. Now, Tool could have used it if he hadn't been shaking so bad, because with the extra lighting he could see now that while the woman's wounds were deep, she'd missed her shot at making herself bleed out to death.
She hadn't missed by much though; she'd need stitches. The guard dried the wounds and put pressure on them, and as he managed to somewhat stop the bleeding a little, Tool grabbed some instant suture and gauze to help and secure her arms. He froze as he noticed previous scars, made by what he guessed to be knives and cigarettes.
She couldn't have done that to herself, he realized with horror as his mind was running at a hundred Miles per hour. His thoughts came to a screeching halt as he saw a small tattoo, cut in a half by one of her open wounds.
It was a number.
A number that made his blood turn into fire in his veins as a scream of rage threatened to leave his mouth. He'd seen numbers like this before, all the way from refugees' camps to prisoners' camps and human trafficking victims. It was a tag. An identification number that had made her turn from a human being to merchandise.
A death sentence to respect, humanity and freedom.
He found himself rubbing his own with his finger as the ambulance arrived on site, called over by the security guard's partner who was now with them. He hadn't noticed him before.
He did notice the woman though, or rather the fact that she was so calm that he had thought her to still be unconscious. She was looking at the sky, silently crying as Tool saw her pain shine brighter than the guard's flashlight in her face.
He found his heart aching for her. The EMT's encouraged him to get up and he turned to them, feeling almost numb from the pain this mess had caused him. Tool found himself walking slowly to the ambulance, getting in and waiting as they got the woman in as well.
He didn't speak at all, letting the EMT's doing their job and nodding or shaking his head when they were in need of answers. They were almost at Parish Hospital when she looked at him with pure terror in her eyes and Tool took her hand in his.
He wouldn't let got, not this time.
Never again.
