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Thephoenixanddragon4forever – don't worry! I haven't forgotten Heimdall...and neither has Loki. :)
Chapter 10
April quickly spooned some food into Sasha's dish, gave him an apologetic pat on the head knowing that the poor cat was probably starving, and then hurried across to the sink to re-fill the glass.
She didn't feel quite so panicky this time, though she was still far from relaxed - a strange and intimidating man remained in her house, after all. But at least he seemed to have mellowed a bit. When he had used her name...well, that was some small relief. And he had allowed her to clean his face. Though she wasn't naïve enough to think either of those gestures made him safe, they did make him seem a touch less...dangerous somehow.
As she passed by the strange book, still lying rather ominously (but so tantalisingly!) upon the living room floor, she decided she would tell him about it when she returned upstairs. There might be something in it that could help him. It might even be a book of spells. It certainly looked the part. And that strange aura surrounding it certainly made it feel the part.
Not spells, she corrected herself, remembering the man's annoyance, incantations, but that little spark of excitement fleetingly returned as she contemplating any sort of magic existing. He had to have come from some sort of fantasy world. Like in books and movies. She wished she wasn't so queasy with nerves so that she could actually enjoy the fact. It was so easy to fantasise scenarios like this - having a fantasy character suddenly appear in your living room - but the reality was far more terrifying. It was the not knowing. Not knowing whether he was benign (and it was the pain that was making him so hostile) or some psycho murderer in his world.
Rushing up the stairs as fast as she could without spilling the water she stepped back into the spare bedroom. She'd give him this first and then get a cloth from the bathroom for his foot.
"Here is your -"
She stopped with a start, simply staring at the man lying still upon the bed, as something twisted achingly inside her.
No.
She knew he was dead, and not just because one of his hands hung limply down towards the floor, and his eyes were closed, and his chest no longer seemed to be rising and falling.
She choked back a sob.
Because he looked...at peace.
Her eyes stung and blurred.
It had happened so suddenly. She had barely been gone a couple of minutes. Three at the most.
Guilt overwhelmed her.
He hadn't wanted to die alone.
It was David all over again.
She hadn't been there for him.
Walking slowly over to the bed she mechanically placed the glass of water upon the bedside table and sat down beside him. Watched him. Felt so terribly sad, even though she barely knew him and he had, for the most part, been abusive and disagreeable.
She finally reached out to check for a pulse, half hoping he would snatch at her wrist again, be angry, be anything, anything but dead. But there was no movement, no echo of a heartbeat. His hand was cold. Still. Lifeless.
She realised she didn't even know his name.
She felt a hot tear trace a path down her cheek.
I'm sorry.
God, I'm sorry.
She sat, holding his hand, battling her emotions, wavering between the torment of the past as well as the present, David and this man almost merging, becoming one. One and the same.
She shook away the crazy notion, telling herself that she wasn't thinking straight.
But she couldn't help the tears. Confused tears. For both men. She didn't want either to be dead.
And then something suddenly snapped inside her, a frantic distraction from the pain, and she was overwhelmed by a dizzying surge of adrenaline.
CPR? Could she try to resuscitate him? He couldn't have been dead long. She had a vague idea how to do it. Though it had been a hell of a long time since she had learnt it at school.
She quickly stood up, staring down at him anxiously. Time was running out. Wasn't it seven minutes before the brain was starved of oxygen? Or was it eight? And was it thirty chest pumps, and then two breaths? Or three? And where the hell was she supposed to press down upon his chest? In the centre? Below the collar bone?
She dragged her fingers shakily through her hair.
God, she didn't know if she could do this. What if she did it wrong?
She took a deep breath. But what was there to lose?
She'd never forgive herself if she didn't at least try.
Biting down upon her lip in anticipation, she carefully eased the pillow out from under him and tilted back his head, his long hair clammy against her skin. Bracing herself, she tentatively pinched his nose and leaned down.
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