Growing
One never knows what each day is going to bring. The important thing is to be open and ready for it.
Henry Moore
***
VI
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I seriously wonder sometimes what I must have done to build up so much bad karma. With all the crap that's been going on lately, you'd have thought I'd killed a litter of puppies or something.
I'm armed. That's something. I don't really know what that's going to count for, considering the things he's been putting me through for the last…how long has it been?
My body's pumping out the epinephrine. That freeze, fight or flight cliché. I can't flee. I'll die if I freeze. The only thing left is fight. And that's some small token of luck, because that's probably what I would have done anyway. Fight, win, get the hell out of here.
I'm not sure fate has the same plans I do.
I'm on the attack before he's even made it inside. All the decision making, all the deliberation, has barely taken more than half a second. I'm reminded of the last time I got into a knife fight, only he was the one with the knife that time, and I was a hell of a lot angrier. I'm not angry now, so much as I am annoyed. As if it's nothing more than a minor hurdle in my life, as if it isn't a life-threatening situation.
I'm trying to think of every single class I've taken on close-quarters combat. Every single time I've sparred with Morgan in the gym, every fight I've gotten into in my entire life. All of a sudden, all I can think of is the time that Morgan had Reid in a headlock, and wouldn't let go until the younger profiler could successfully escape his hold. I guess I'm almost tying with Reid when it comes to getting kidnapped. By this point, I seriously wonder if I'll ever see any of them again. All of it seems so inconsequential. Fifteen years of professional experience. Forty years of life experience. All leading up to this point. This is the point where I decide if I'm going to live, or if I'm going to die.
The question is, have I really been living anyway? That's questionable. At least, it has been since Lee's death. I don't need a shrink to tell me that I've been going through the motions. And that's something I'm hoping to change if I can just get out of here alive.
The knife scores across his abdomen; I'd taken him by surprise. He recovers quickly, grabbing at the follow-through of my arm, whilst simultaneously throwing a punch. His fist cracks my nose, and I stumble backwards slightly, pulling him with me. I can already feel the blood trickling down towards my lips.
My foot connects with something on the ground, and we both fall backwards, my hand still on the knife, and his hand still on my wrist. I'm at the disadvantage now, his body pressed on top of mine. We're both breathing heavily, and I can see the almost crazed look in his eyes. He wants to kill me. He isn't going to give up.
But neither am I.
I don't quite have the strength to gain the advantage in the traditional sense, and I know that I'm fading fast. It's getting a lot harder to breath, and the pain from my various injuries isn't quite blocked out by the adrenaline. I'm vaguely aware of him pushing my wrist upwards, closer and closer to my neck. It brushes lightly against my skin, not enough to draw blood, but enough to know that he could kill me with just one quick thrust. It's a terrifying thought, but not nearly as terrifying as all the stuff the team has dealt with over the years.
'You're going to die,' he tells me, matter-of-factly. 'I'm going to make sure that it's oh so slow. I'm going to make sure-'
I take advantage of his distraction, pushing upwards suddenly. The blade pierces his jugular, with every bit of force I can manage behind it. The warm blood spurts out – not a fountain, but fast enough that his hands go straight to his throat. I don't know if it's too late for him, and quite frankly, at this point, I don't care.
The door is still open, so I get to my feet, painfully aware of the numerous wounds that are now screaming for attention. I don't know what I had been expecting, but it still surprises me to see a regular house beyond the boundaries of the door. A house with a kitchen, a dining room. Not some monster's lair with dungeons and fiery pits of doom. But that's a good thing. Because a house, in my experience, usually has a phone.
This house has its phone in the kitchen, right next to the fruit bowl, and I almost laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. Instead, I find myself using the kitchen counter as a crutch, my energy meter so very, very close to being completely empty.
The phone feels awkward in my hands, as if my fingers are numb, or they're being controlled by someone else. It takes several attempts to punch out the first phone number I can think of, which happens to be Morgan's cell number, and even then it's only because it has an above average number of 4's in it.
'Morgan,' he answers, and his voice sounds tired and sharp at the same time. It's light outside, which means I've been here for at the very least, twelve hours.
'Morgan…' I repeat his name because my mind feels so chaotic right now that I can't really think of anything better to say.
'Emily, are you alright?' His tone is nothing but concern now, and I feel a sudden rush of warmth for the team. 'Where are you?'
'I…' I'm about to answer the first question – to tell him that I'm fine, and that they need to get their asses over here pronto, because I really need to take a nap. Then I notice blood stain that's slowly seeping through my blouse, and I realize that I'm probably not as alright as I think I am. 'Please,' is all I get a chance to say before the phone slips from my grasp and my head slams into the linoleum floor.