The lack of Leon’s soft snores makes me tap the side of the bed to find what I suspected: I’m alone.
I wonder if he’s just taking a leak, which suddenly makes me realize I need to go too.
I throw off the bedsheet, which is more like a lettuce leaf because it’s so thin but suitable for the hot climate, a contrast to the freezing temperatures of Edmonton in winter.
Rubbing my half-dopey eyes lazily from sleep, I ease out of bed, feeling the coolness of the night air brushing against my skin, then head to the bathroom to discover that Leon isn’t there either.
Maybe he went up on deck to watch the sunrise, something we discussed during our pillow talk before falling asleep in each other’s arms.
I quickly finish my business, wash my hands, and climb the spiral stairs leading to the upper deck that will take me to him. “Leon?” I whisper, my heart unsettled and my mind alert.
Nothing.
“Leeeeooooonnnn.” I sound like I’m calling a cat.
Still, nothing.
That’s strange.
I stand still as a statue, trying to hear him to work out where he is.
With only the sound of the ocean below us, the gentle lapping of the waves against the hull, the occasional creak of wood, and the soft thump of the roping, there are no voices to be heard.
Taking a moment, I enjoy the calm, appreciating the moonlight that’s painted in silver streaks across the still water, but there’s a slight nip in the air as the breeze hits me. I fold my arms around myself, hugging Leon’s T-shirt closer.
Walking toward the back of the yacht, the stern, I slip on something sticky. “Shit.” I hiss, steadying myself, then I look down at my bare feet to find I’ve stepped in something dark.
I shiver because I know what that is. It’s blood.
“Leon?” I call his name once more, spotting stains that look a lot like drips of blood that make a path toward the aft. Panic rises in my throat, my heart beating so fast now it feels like I’m about to have a cardiac arrest, my eyes darting around the space.
That’s when I see him.
My Leon.
Lying face down, a dark stain spreading out across the decking.
“Leon,” I shriek, my medical instincts kicking in, my heart refusing to give in to the panic that’s crawling up my throat.
Running to him, I drop to my knees and don’t see a patient whose hair is matted with blood, but my heart, my anchor, and the love of my life.
“Help me,” I scream. “Somebody help,” I scream again at the top of my lungs to signal the crew for support, my fingers trembling as I touch the cool skin of his neck.
Acting quickly, I check for a pulse, the gut-wrenching reality hitting me like a ton of bricks.
Nothing.
“No… no, no, no,” I whisper, panic rising to an all-time high, but my training snaps into focus.
I move him onto his back and wince, sheer fright seeping through me when I see the amount of blood pouring from the side of his head and covering his face. I position my hands over his chest and begin forcefulcompressions,counting in my head:One, two, three. Pressing down, releasing, pressing again.
“Come on… come on, you can’t leave me,” I murmur between breaths as tears pour down my cheeks, blurring my vision.
Leaning down to deliver rescue breaths against his mouth after thirty compressions, the blood on his face smears and wets my lips, but I don’t care. I keep going as the metallic tang of his blood fills my mouth.
That’s when I hear footsteps moving closer.
“I’m at the rear of the yacht,” I call as I recheck Leon’s airway, his breathing, his circulation, while every fiber of my body screams in terror.
