Thanks so much to mozzi-girl, DizzyRedhead, HopelessRomantic1994 and Guest for the reviews!
I run the whole way home, not bothering to look behind me to check if I'm being followed. I avoid the more crowded routes to my apartment building and don't meet anyone on the stairs; but I still attempt to lock my still-broken door.
Throwing my jacket on my couch, I head to the bathroom to access the damage. Looking in the mirror, it's a wonder that I made it home without someone stopping me in the streets. There's a cut on my cheek and judging from the blood my nose must have been bleeding; and I must have some sort of cut on the back of my head judging by the pain back there. I let go of my arm for a moment, which I had been holding tightly against my body for the whole trip, and let out an involuntary gasp of pain. I take a moment to let it subside before I move it again, knowing that I can't risk going to the hospital and having it fixed there. I have to do it myself before the swelling goes up too much.
After a moment of mental preparation I take a deep breath, bending my elbow and getting ready to put my shoulder back in place. I try my best to remember the time I dislocated my shoulder as a kid, after falling off a horse l think, and hope that I can fix it just as well as any doctor can.
I close my eyes as I force my shoulder back into place, and a few tears break through my eyelids as pain shoots through my whole body. It goes away almost instantly, leaving my breathless and pale as I lean against the bathroom sink. I almost smile with relief as the pain fades into a memory; and after cleaning my the rest of my minor wounds I climb into the shower to make sure I get the rest of the blood and broken glass off of me.
The warm water stings every cut and scrape I have, but it feels good to get the few tiny pieces of debris off of me. When I'm done, I wrap up my shoulder and check the cut on the back of my head to find that the bleeding has already almost stopped. I slip into clean clothes and hide the bloody ones in my bedroom until I can dispose of them later.
Before I check my phone again I can feel myself getting shaky, and after a moment of hesitation I reach inside my coat pocket and pop one of the bitter pills into my mouth. I feel bad about it, and would give anything to stop…but now just isn't the time.
My phone rings just as I'm about to reach for it, showing off a new text message. My heart nearly drops as I read it.
'Outside your door'.
I grab my gun from the counter, nearly ready to chase after him. He couldn't have gone far, I was only in the shower for a few minutes!
Throwing open the door, I sprint out into the empty hallway, my gun raised. Part of me urges me to chase after him; knowing he can't have gone far. The other part, the more logically one, knows I can't risk it. I can't risk failing and having Mal get hurt, or worse, killed.
I start to walk defeatedly back inside when I step on a note placed just inside the door. I grab it and run back inside, shutting the door behind me as I lean against it and read the crumpled note. The handwriting is hasty and messy, perhaps written by someone who no longer had steady hands, but I can just make out the untidy scrawl written in black ink.
'The pill you just took was laced with a slow-acting poison. You have exactly two hours to find Mal Fallon and say your goodbyes'.
I have to read it several times before my brain is able to put the words together. My hands start to shake, but it doesn't quite sink in right away. I just stand there, my eyes looking for the slightest hope on the messy piece of paper in my hands. How did he know what I was doing? I've known all along he's been keep an eye on me…I just never really thought about how close.
I flip it over, finding nothing more than an address on the back. That's it. There's nothing more written about my life.
Terror washes over me in a wave, and in that moment I find myself sinking to the floor. It's over, it's all over. I can't think or fight my way out of this one. It's either me, or Mal. My only hope is to get to a hospital, immediately alerting Shawn and basically signing Mal's death warrant. Even then, I probably wouldn't survive anyway. Shawn wouldn't use some common poison for me, not when he wants me dead.
No matter what I do, I'm a goner. And even if I have a sliver of a chance of surviving…I would never do that to Mal. I'd rather die than see his dead body float up on a beach somewhere in a week, a bullet through his skull.
The only choice is to accept it and keep going. I know it's best not to dwell on it…but a childish question still makes it's way into my mind.
Will it hurt to die?
All those times Mal and I had barely escaped with our lives; all those injuries and accidents had never really made me think about it. I was always too busy trying to get out alive to think about what would happen if I didn't. Of course, now isn't a good time to think about it either. Mal's still out there; poison or not.
Slowly, I pull myself back up, trying to control the trembling that's taken over my hands. As I do, I become more aware of being alive than ever. My heart pounds in my chest; fast as if to compensate for the time I'm about to lose and ensure I get a full lifetime full. Every breath I take feels cold and invigorating, a reminder that I could stop at any time.
Before I leave, I take the box from my bed and place it on my couch. The files that were originally inside are gone; so instead I copy the address onto my hand before I place the bottle and note inside the box. That way, if anything happens to me and I never find Mal…his life won't end with mine. It's stupid to think that Shawn won't kill him after I die, he won't have any use for him after that, but I can't just give up like that. If there's any chance…I have to take it.
I consider writing a note to my parents and sister; but I don't know what I would even say. I know if I do I'll just waste precious time staring at a blank page with a pen in my hands. I don't have time. I just hope that they understand.
The last thing I do is take one last look at my apartment; as if to memorize the home I'll never see again. I wonder what they'll do with it once I'm gone. Would anyone want to live in the home of someone who was murdered?
After wasting at least ten minutes I know I have to go, and as I slip on my coat I notice the three fading words written across my arms. As I do, a surprising calm comes over me as I shut the door behind me for the very last time.
Please review?