James
6 years ago.
I don't remember the drive. I remember blood. On my hands. On her face. On the seat. The way her head lolled against the window, eyes half-lidded, lips slack. The shape of her name in my throat, so raw it felt like it might tear out the lining if I said it again.
I'd seen a lotta bodies. Hell, I'd made a lotta bodies. But it wasn't supposed to be her. It was never supposed to be her.
I hauled her out of the wreckage, cradling her against me like it made a goddamn difference now. I don't even remember whose car we took. Some poor fuck left it running and I was gone.
Her blood soaked through my jacket. I could feel it — sticky, hot, turning cold too fast.
"Stay awake, sweetheart. Stay the fuck with me."
But she wasn't answering anymore.
