43. Dying
Her lips are stained red, partially from her fading lipstick. Mostly from the blood welling up between them.
Lassiter's somewhere, running through the labyrinth of alleys and backstreets that crisscross the seedier side of Santa Barbara, chasing the perp. They'd been on a stakeout when Juliet had noticed the hooker-more girl than woman, really-leading a john into a dark alley. It made her stomach turn, like always, until she noticed the metallic glint in the man's hand. Then her stomach had clenched, and she was pulling Lassiter out of the car and sprinting across the street, her gun half drawn.
Something she doesn't want to think about is soaking her pant knees and no amount of dry cleaning will ever get the blood stains out of her jacket now that she's used it to try and slow the bleeding from the girl's gaping stomach wound. Juliet feels a little disgusted with herself for worrying about her laundry, and slips an arm under the girl's shoulder, cushioning her head in the crook of her elbow, keeping low to the ground so that she won't make things worse.
The girl-there's no way she's older than sixteen-clutches at her hand where it's pressing down against the ruined jacket, squeezing almost painfully tight, her long, fake nails digging into her skin.
Juliet can hear the ambulance sirens in the distance and she knows, just knows, they won't make it in time. Her grip around the girl tightens and she tries to keep her face calm and reassuring. The girl-God, she's so young-tries to talk, but can only manage a faint gurgle, bringing up more blood that leaks between the corners of her mouth and down her face, into her ears, over her chin.
Juliet smooths her limp, greasy hair away from her face and offers soft, soothing words. Her eyes are feverish, glassy, pleading, then dim as her body goes limp and heavy in Juliet's arms.
Later that night, when she's alone in her apartment in her pajamas with a mug of tea and a cat curled up in her lap, she'll uncompartmentalize, let herself cry, and remind herself that she's human. But for now, she stands to the side as the girl's body is loaded into the coroner's van, makes mental notes for the report she'll have to make, examines her pants to see if they're salvageable, and nods at Lassiter as he strong arms the girl's murderer into the back of a police car.
Kristin: Oh, darlings, I have the entire day off tomorrow. I still have to spend at least an hour or so practicing, but other than that, it's all mine. I don't even know what I'm going to do with myself. Probably sleep in for the first time in about a month, go for a jog, read, do some baking and laundry, maybe even watch a movie. *flails happily* It's going to be boring and relaxing and wonderful. I'm gonna make scones!
PeanutTree- Thank you! I don't know, I think I tend to categorize anything that I write with an OC in it as crack. Maybe I'm too hard on my OCs, but I live in eternal fear of creating a Mary Sue. Lassie needs some loving. The writers need to get on that. Like, yesterday.
42/100