Please be okay.
The torturous drive ends in front of the apartment building I used to call home.I shove cash at the driver without waiting for change and scramble out.Inside, I race to the elevators.After pressing the call button, the wait stretches into an eternity.When one finally arrives, I step inside, my heartbeat thundering in my ears as the doors slide shut.
Each soft chime of a floor passing feels like a tick on a time bomb.
The walk to James’s apartment door at the end of the hall feels miles long.A journey that is surreal and dreamlike.My focus narrows until only his dark wood door exists.
I stand before it, my breaths coming in shallow bursts.
Every self-preservation instinct I possess screams at me to turn around and leave.But the memory of that sickening thud on the phone, followed by that terrifying silence, pushes me forward.
The key scrapes against the metal of the lock.I have to use two hands to be steady enough to guide it in.
Inhaling one last, ragged breath, I push the door open and step inside.
An unnerving stillness.
The overwhelming, stale stench of whiskey.
The apartment is in ruins.
The table lamp is knocked over on its side, its shade askew.Cushions and empty bottles of alcohol are scattered across the floor.In the center of the living room, the glass coffee table is shattered into a thousand pieces.My gaze catches on the jagged edge of a large shard.And a dark red smear across its sharp surface.
“James?”I can barely get his name out as my eyes frantically scan the wreckage.
Then I see him.
He’s crumpled on the floor on the far side of the table, his body twisted.His phone lies a few inches from his outstretched hand.
“James!”I gasp, rushing to his side.My knees hit the floor beside him as I reach to shake his shoulder.
Pure, primal fear takes over.
I pull him with all my might onto his back.That’s when I see it.A long, jagged gash runs down the length of his inner forearm.It’s horrifyingly deep, with a shard of glass still protruding from the skin.
A strangled sound, half sob, half scream, rips from my throat.
For one eternal second, I am frozen, my mind unable to process the amount of blood.
The sight of his still, pale face finally shatters my paralysis.
Help.
I need to get help.
Now.
I scramble backward, away from the pool of blood, my hands searching frantically for my purse.My phone feels impossibly heavy as I pull it out, my vision blurring as my index finger stabs at the screen.
9-1-1
The call connects on the first ring.
“911, what’s your emergency?”a calm, professional female voice asks.
The sound of another human, so steady and normal, breaks the dam inside me.
A sob rips from my throat, violent and uncontrolled.“Oh my God, please,” I cry, the words a tangled mess.“He’s on the floor.There’s so much blood!This is all my fault…”
