And again.
And again.
Again, until he was a keening, crying mess of blood and snot, vomit and bone beneath me. And then again, when he opened his mouth and tried to cry out.
I beat the man to death, and the entire time I did I was seeing blue eyes… Bishop’s blue eyes… ocean eyes… I wasn’t sure which man I was killing him for trying to take from me.
I didn’t know.
It didn’t matter.
My gun was slippery with blood by the time I turned it and unloaded three shots into his broken face for good measure.
I was shaking when I stood, and the silence in the theater was deafening. There were no more rabid beating on doors, as far as I could tell.
No more raiders.
A quick sweep of the area confirmed it… and I realized I couldn’t avoid what was below me forever.
I had to climb down.
I had to go to him, but I was afraid to look.
Even from a distance, I could see the ghost image ofBishop lying there beside him, hurt because of me. Hurt protecting me. Dead because ofme.
“I’m not worth it.” The words tore from my chest as I fell to my knees beside Phoenix.
I’d fallen by the wet spot of blood and thicker things where Bishop had been torn apart that day he’d died to save me. It was different now—I could drop my ear to Phoenix’s chest, could listen desperately for the sound of his heart still beating like I hadn’t been able to then.
It was there—thick and steady. Thrumming. Pounding.
Real.
“Fuck,” I gasped, suddenly incapable of drawing a deep enough breath to fill my burning lungs. It wasn’t the injuries I’d sustained—those didn’t matter, I’d feel them later—it was panic, pain, the past and the present colliding and trying to tear me apart.
It was Phoenix lying there, pale beneath his paint. Pale because he’d risked his life to save me.
“Fuck.” I said the word again, brushing my fingers carefully across his face. He’d taken the worst damage to his stomach, and thankfully it had been from humans and not rabids. It was better in some ways, worse in others.
I was great at healing my own damage.
I was only okay at tending to others. I’d learned the basics from the Order, and the bag I’d flung off my shoulder at the doorway before I came in shooting had medication in it that could speed along healing, but most of the supplies I’d gathered were back in our room.
Our room…
Our…
“Fuck…” The world around me started to spin. The small task of drawing in enough air to keep myself upright suddenly became the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. My body felt like it was going numb from shock, from…
PTSD.
The word flitted through my head.
Trauma.
I’d been through a lot—probably more than I should have been able to pull myself back from. I honestly attributed my ability to cope to the fact I’d been doing it since I was so small. I’d been beaten and thrust into survival mode, and I’d always managed to get through it without falling apart.
Until now.
