My eyes shoot wide open. The moment I slipped into unconsciousness is unclear, but the panic is back, and it’s blaring louder than before. I toss quickly to my side. Ezra is no longer there—a mound under the sheets. The covers have caved in—the imprint of his body the only trace. I jump to my feet in a blur. Light-headedness crashes into me, forcing me to hold an arm out to steady my balance. When the worst of it subsides, I bolt out of the bedroom, searching for him in the expanse of the living room and kitchen.
“Ezra?” I say, panicked.
No reply. Instead, noise from the bathroom reaches my ears. Then, suddenly, a crash echoes from inside. I stumble for the door.
“Ezra!” I cry.
The handle won’t budge after several jerks. I keep shaking for it to relent, but it remains locked.
“Ezra! Open the door, please!”
I press against the door, leaning all my weight into it, when I remember I can teleport inside.
My brain doesn’t want to process what it sees. The sickly, egregious sight of spilling crimson over the side of the tub, the tiled flooring, intermingled with vomit that missed the basin of the toilet. Ezra is in the center of it all. He’s slumped against the wall, arm draped over the lip of the tub and eyes staring blankly ahead as if he no longer has the sight to see.
There’s blood. So much fucking blood, it’s all I can see.
Ezra’s drowning in it.
After the initial shock has worn off, I rush to him and kneel down. A knife is planted in his outstretched palm, which lies lazily at his side. A plethora of lacerations climbs up the length of each arm, exuding blood. It sloshes down the forearms, pouring onto the floor. Everywhere. It drapes down everywhere.
Something morbid climbs up my throat and escapes through my mouth. It echoes in the bathroom, ringing deep in my ears, vibrating fiercely, and tearing away at my organs. I scream. I scream his name, I scream for help, and I continue even as my throat cries for mercy in response.
“HELP! HELP US!”
I wedge my arms underneath his armpits and try to lift Ezra from the floor, but he’s too slick with blood, and now it’s coated all over me. He’s too tall for me to carry and I don’t have enough strength to get him to the infirmary. I could teleport there, cry for help until someone comes running, but Ezra’s bleeding out. There’s no time.
I call out for help again. And again. I try to staunch the blood with towels and whatever else is nearby, but it’s useless. What was once white is now stained in a deep crimson.
“You’ll b-be okay, love. It’ll be o-okay,” I stutter.
I scream until my voice grows hoarse.
Chapter 59
Atlas
Ifixate on my stained shirt, mottled with blood that’s soured a dark brown. My hands and forearms are caked with it, crusting and breaking off into tiny motes that flake the linoleum flooring. Healers come and go. I’m sure they asked me how I was doing at some point, but everything’s numb and cold, a world void of their warmth and light.
Ezra’s being tended to the same as Conin. While Ezra has a higher chance of a full recovery, Conin’s situation remains bleak. Healers surround him at regular intervals. They have some of the best tending to him. Regardless, Conin is on constant oxygen with blood transfusions pumping back the excess blood he lost. The bullet grazed so deep that Mafu had a difficult time pulling out the various fragments.
When I make another round, Ambrosia impedes me from pacing any further. Her cold fingers grip my biceps tightly, keeping me at arm’s length. She searches my line of sight and tries to gather my attention.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she whispers.
I don’t protest.
Ambrosia slips her fingers around mine, tugging me gently to a restroom at the far end of the hall. We sidle in, the door is shut gently behind me, and I start to feel the raw stirring of coarse hands scrubbing away the crusted-on blood. By the end, I’m freed of the crimson stains at the cost of my stinging, abraded arms. The sink drains the brackish water and leaves residual streaks of red. I look in the restroom’s mirror, glasses askew, lips mangled from where I’ve been chewing them.
“Stay here. I’m going to find you a change of clothes,” Ambrosia says.
The reflection gazes drearily back at me, suspended in time.
I could’ve prevented him from hurting himself. I should’ve never fallen asleep.
Ambrosia returns before any stupid decisions are made. She knocks softly.
“Eureka101, it’s me.”
