Here we are at the second chapter. I'm so happy for all your support: it's fundamental for me and my writing. Sorry for any mistakes. Longer piece, this time, but things begin to move. Hope you like it, write me if you have any doubt or advice.

Enjoy, and thanks again.

I -Sub Caelum

(Under the Sky)

Carlton stood still, watching as his body died.

No no, that can't be, that can't be.

It was curious how his mind kept lingering on the most inane details: it was a quite normal reaction to a shocking situation, he knew it, a way for the mind to hold on the world without imploding. He looked down and lazily noted the glossy glares dancing through his paramedic's hair, catching light like cherry wood, and at the same time counted the seconds without beats.

Fifty.

In the background someone sobbed, praying and cursing together. The auburn-haired paramedic insulted him and his not collaborative heart, threw away the plates and started the manual CPR. Was he really that pale?

One minute and twenty seconds.

O'Hara was crouched down on the concrete, digging her nails in Guster's shirt and not turning away from him, no, not him, the body, for a single instant; Shawn was behind her, he wasn't breathing. That arm was swollen, he should really have it checked.

One minute and thirty seconds.

-Come on, badass.- the paramedic pushed on his chest, again, again. -Come on.-

Forty.

Fifty.

Sixty.

The shrill stopped, turning in a shaky beat. The auburn-haired woman sat down on her heels, let out a breath. -Okay, he's back. Anderson, catch me the emergency bandages and help me put him in the ambulance, I don't want the jackass slip away again.-

And then, it finally sank in.

I nearly died.

I saw myself nearly die.

His body jerked. His lips were bluish, blood pouring from the edges. -Fuck, he's in shock.- He watched the doctors applying their magic harasses around his body, glue and gauzes and electrodes and oxygen mask, his ah, friend is such a banal word, his people looking at them without breaking contact with the closer one. He knew he should do something, anything. He knew it well, but just couldn't do it, because for the first time since a long time, he had no control. Because what are you supposed to do, when facts didn't make any sense?

And things were so damn fast.

Calm down, detective, calm down. Maybe you hit your head harder than you think, and now you're hallucinating. Or it can be a pre-death experience, or some other new age crap. Or you're just dreaming, and in no time the alarm would start ringing and Shawn would get up with you complaining all the way to the kitchen and O'Hara would chasing you for the unfinished McLannon report and then make him laugh with the precinct gossips.

Or maybe he was really dying, and he was simply slipping away.

He stared at his hands, slowly. He should feel cold, or weak, but he didn't feel neither. He didn't feel anything: no heartbeat, no breath, no sun warmth or sticky air on the skin. Just like he wasn't there.

His hands couldn't shake.

-I, I pick up the car and go to the hospital.- O'Hara slowly got up, face hard under the messy makeup, while the nurses loaded his body on the truck. -Shawn, you go with Gus?-

But Spencer was still, and on his face was the only expression Carlton never wanted to see. Fear, and restlessness. The kind ready to turn and run over everyone. He fell back. -I, I can't do it, guys. Sorry, but it's, it's just too much. Sorry. Sorry.-

Juliet widened her eyes. -What?-

Spencer, Shawn, looked at her, and the look was scared and mean and old. -I won't go, Jules. Not-not now. I'm sorry, but it's...it's not how I work.-

-Well, guess what, Shawn? That's not about you being ready.- O'Hara spatted the words, fingers digging in the palms, trembling. -In that ambulance there's my best friend bleeding to death, and I'm not even sure he would still be here when I'll get to the hospital, and damn sure I'm not ready for it. But I'll be there, the whole fucking time. So now move your ass and come with us.-

-To do what, eh, Jules?- Shawn hissed. -Holding his hand and crying like a lousy Broadway starlet? I remember everything, everything, and I won't remember Lassie like that. I won't...- The grin faltered.

-...I won't see him going like that.-

And then he turned, not shivering, not wavering, just going. Carlton blinked, enraged and not knowing why.

In the background, Vick's voice. Okay, O'Hara, you take Lassiter's car and go to the hospital, Guster, find your friend, McNeab, you're with me, now.

He really couldn't understand. It wasn't just Spencer's words, dissect the problems, sort them in little sections, breath, it was the anger behind them.

Shaw was defeated. The defeat was him.

But I'm here, for Christ's sake. I'm here.

For now.

His mind started racing again.

Maybe he wasn't really there. His body, the body he used to shoot with and run and touch, was a crumpled mess of flesh. Oh God, maybe I'm already lost, oh my God, and they won't ever know, won't ever know all that I want to say them.

Oh God, no.

He ran forward, past the sirens and the blood stains on the concrete, chasing Shawn: he could see his absurd ash-greasy hair, the leather jacket he chronically forgot at his place. I'm here. -Shawn!- he cried -Shawn, it's me, it's me.- But then the hair and the leather jacket vanished in the crowd, and he couldn't find them, and yet there was no time to think, no time to regret, and so up again, running, leaning over O'Hara and the mask of white and streaked black of her face. -O'Hara, look at me.-

She kept crying.

-O'Hara, come on, I'm right here!-

He did not want to hear what she's whispering. Turned.

-Guster!-

-Chief!-

-McNeab!- He kept racing, calling to everybody he knew, cursing, hoping they did something, anything that said him he was alive and that crap was just a damn trip. And everybody fell through his fingers like sand. Guster. Vick. McNeab. And finally O'Hara got up, and he had, had to try another time. There were so many things he wanted say her.

O'Hara, I left your blueberry bars in the third drawer of the desk.

O'Hara, I'm sorry for being such a pain in the ass.

Partner, I'm scared.

He stretched his hand, they never touched. She slipped, and run to his car, and was gone.

He stayed there and pleaded for the same two words she whispered leaving.

Don't go.

Time was flowing in a funny way. The whole scene had lasted five, seven minutes at best, but it had seemed to stretch on a ridiculous overexposed eternity. Now the ambulance and the cars and the cops were far, sirens screaming and screaming and screaming, and he didn't have had the time to blink.

Maybe this is how it ends. Maybe death is living this moment, again and again.

He winced. No, no, he couldn't think it, because if he thought it it would risk to be real, and he wasn't ready for that.

I won't remember Lassie like that.

Facts, he needed facts. No one saw him so far, but maybe there is an explanation, maybe they were all in shock and didn't understand; so someone else should be able to do it, and explain him what the hell had happened. And about the body?

Facts.

He spun around, avanzando toward the crowd. The crops of people were scattering, someone rumoring, someone taking photos, someone else staring with the dull fascination of who didn't catch all he was seeing but wouldn't lose a thing. He tried to feel the crowd, the smell of polyester and sweat under hot sun, didn't feel anything, moved forward.

-Gentlemen, please.- His cop voice stretched over the sea of heads. -Gentlemen, please, I'm Detective Carlton Lassiter, and I need you to listen carefully.-

No reaction. A pig-tailed little girl pulled her mother's blouse, moaning.

He swore. -Gentlemen! Listen to me!-

A woman crying softly, middle-aged men whispering over their Hawaiian t-shirts, Christ, have you seen it?

-Hey. For God's sake, shut up a moment and listen to me!-

He's a man, he's been shot by that guy with the red pick-up.

Man, there was so much blood.

-Listen to me! Listen to me!-

Shaking heads, grimaces, No, not a lot of chances.

-Listen, I really need to...-

He was a lost fight.

-I...-

A lost fight.

-...please-.

It was then that he saw her. A tall girl, standing about five feet away and monkeying with a large golden earring. She wore a pair of jeans, a Batman T-shirt and a tangle of sandy hair.

And she was staring right at him.

-Ehy, you!- Lassie jumped ahead, leaving the crowd, leaving the Hawaiian-shirted men and their words. -You, the girl up there.-

She turned away, but the movement was too fast to be convincing. He was skilled enough in human ways of lying.

-Listen, kid, don't worry: I'm a detective, I got caught in the explosion. My...- he bitted his lip, the briefest moment -...my colleagues are still in shock and I think something is not right, and I need someone who saw what happened. Okay?-

The girl's shoulders jerked as if he slapped her. She rubbed her eyes, cursing in an expressive, dry language. -Go away- she murmured.

Carlton frowned. He had no time, he had no time at all. But at least, this was something he knew how to deal with: a grumpy teenager, probably shaken by the violence and the blood and by real life suddenly becoming a punch in the stomach. Stick to facts, Lassiter.

-Ehy, I know this is pretty messy, but don't worry, okay? I'm one of the good guy, I swear.-

The girl cursed again, cast him a glare that burned all the way through his ribs, and run off.

Oh no, don't you dare.

He took after her.

It was not a real run, and his was not a real chasing: she just kept strolling among kids and fire workers, latecoming reporters e hobos casually crashing there, legs speeding with a poorly-repressed agitation.

-Calm down!- he shouted. -Ehy, calm down! I could charge you per obstructionism and I've already have a crappy day, so stop.-

She murmured something under her breath.

How she dared? How she dared not paying attention? He had no time, he had no time, Christ.

No time before the ambulance arrived and Shawn got really away and then, then.

He had no time.

Carlton stopped, teeth clenched.

-Ehy- he growled. -Ehy! I don't know if you have problems with cops and honestly don't give a damn, but this is a police officer asking you to collaborate and I really need you to stop, okay?- A pause.

-Please.-

That single word froze the girl on the spot. He stared at her head as she shivered, turned in a twist. -Go away.- she hissed. -Go away.-

She was panting hard. Trembling, but not from fear.

Lassiter frowned. It was from hatred.

Calm down, close your eyes, act. -Look, I know you're shocked, but I'll only ask some information and I'll be gone, I swear.- He went forward, slowly, hands spread before him. She didn't back.

-No, no, you shouldn't be here, okay? No one of you should be here. I wouldn't do this again, you betcha, so go away. Leave me alone. Ci mancava il poliziotto, cazzo.-

Act.

-Kid, I wouldn't ask you anything more, but I need you to help me. Now.-

The girl took a step behind. -You really don't know- she whispered. – you really don't know what you are.-

There was something in her voice. It couldn't be pity: pity was bad, pity meant dying friends or dying love or dying you, so it just couldn't be. -What do you mean?-

-Okay, I'm really, really sorry for you, but I, I can't do it this time.- Another step. -Not again. I promised. I promised.-

Too late he knew it was a getaway. She swirled around, dashing through the crowd in a heap of fabric and golden sprinkles. He looked around wildly, felt the urge to cry, cursed because of it and because of the time and because he couldn't do it.

That morning he was eating a bagel. He was eating a bagel in a gashy cafeteria with Spencer and his grinder-like best friend, arguing about laundry and reality shows; laundry and reality shows, for Christ's sake.

But world works like that. Pain, fear, chaos just splattered over you, without warning. It took a second to get shot in the head, it took less than a minute to phone a victim's family and shatter a life.

Less than a minute, clear, less than a minute, we're losing him.

Calm down. Carlton pressed the hands against his face, hard. Think, open your eyes, act.

He needed to find O'Hara. He needed to find her, find O'Hara so she would explain everything and call Spencer and tell Carlton how dense he had been while brushing his cheek. So find them, the car, the ambulance, ambulance, hospital.

Go to the hospital. Go to the hospital.

He straightened up, closed his eyes, visualize the three fastest ways to the hospital. And run forward.

Go to the hospital. Go to O'Hara. I have no time.

Behind him, silvery clouds rolled on.