'Hey, forgive me brother, up all night, I'm going under. But I don't wanna be like you and you don't wanna be like me.'
-------------------------------------------
Maybe it wasn't the fear that held me back.
Or even just the pain of it.
I've never really been scared of anything.
If I can't remember my roots.
I will float.
I will run.
I will seek my freedom even if I am on my knees.
Scraped raw. Hands bloodied from clawing out of my own grave.
I have the certainty. Knowing.
That I can save myself.
With or without roots.
-------------------------------------------
There was something distinct when one lays there dying.
Olena was vaguely frightened, even as she lay there. The ground hard, and the creeping coldness and numbness seeped into her limbs.
She remembered, drowsily, what it felt when she knocked on the door — the apprehension as she waited, something again, eerie in the stillness of the night.
Maybe it was her mistake to go looking where she was not supposed too.
Vaguely, Olena could see flashing lights, and a hand reaching out to her; she could make out none of the figures features, only that the hand was firm, the figure was warm; and something as her drowsy thoughts tried to link themselves together like fraying rope. Her mind spinning in the midst of the chaos she could not hear; the muffled voices of orders and commands, a firm hand on her abdomen, how the hands never faltered.
The lights got brighter.
The slight pain of the stab wound in her abdomen, and the rapidly descending dark spots that clouded her vision.
She was kept awake; the figure was not rough, she thought sluggishly, never rough—almost tender, and firm in their grip as she was hoisted, finally.
A mask propped onto her face.
Her eyes fluttered slightly, glancing down to see if she could see her saviour.
She caught a glimpse.
Barely.
But it was there, and as her eyes rolled back, and unconsciousness embraced her; her heart warmed, she knew those [Eye Colour] eyes anywhere.
What a relief, he's alive.
-------------------------------------------
It was a fight, trying to sneak out.
The blood, mine. Trying to sneak out, and wiggle out of the binds, with enough damage to myself where I could feel every shot of pain as I rushed out.
Up the stairs, I couldn't afford to slow down.
I could barely afford to slow down and grab a broom, anything really to aid in my escape.
I couldn't even glance at the calendar and see when it was—I only had enough time to really peek into the office and see photos, documents, ID photos, fake ID's—
I had to leave.
I couldn't stay here.
Find help, get back to the mission. Complete this world. Go.
A creak.
I stilled. I held my breath.
A shift on the floor boards, a quiet voice, talking over the phone—or, what I could assume, was the phone.
I couldn't linger; this was my chance.
Who knew when Henry would go down and notice?
I slipped by, silent as a shadow, moving in sync with his movements, and kept slinking down the hallway; there were no lights on. I wasn't in anything noticeable. I could only thank whatever powers were out there where I had picked darker clothes.
The window was up ahead, means I can at least assess my surroundings. I quickly rounded the corner, and peeped out.
It was late from what I could gather. The orange of the streetlights, meant that it was late, and touching the coldness of the glass, there was condensation, meaning it was going to be cold tonight, or at the very least, it had rained—or what I could assume.
I kept moving, and then I slipped down the stairs, slowly, gingerly.
Toes first, slow, and my muscles burned from disuse, but I pushed through.
I couldn't afford any mistakes.
If I was caught again, this might be my last.
So I slinked down, painstakingly, until finally I touched down the last step.
I jumped at the doorbell ringing.
I dived into a storage cupboard quickly. Holding my breath.
And Henry's steps, light and quick, bounced down the steps, and to the door.
My hands clamped over my mouth, and I breathed slowly out of my mouth—I watched through the slither of the cupboard door.
Olena was there, talking to Henry, before pushing into the entrance hall—I couldn't really listen, my brain was too focused on staying still to listen to the contents of their conversation. So, I stayed still. Watching.
I watched as Olena expressed, at least, what I thought, were her concerns, and Henry's growing frustration at her. His evasiveness, his irritation, and the anxiety that was brought upon by probably whatever my situation that he created was.
I wondered vaguely whether Declan had even come looking for me, before quickly dismissing the thought. Just because there might have been the slither of hope that he was looking for me, did not mean that he would be forgiven so easily.
I shook my head slightly.
Focus.
-------------------------------------------
The two continued arguing. And by the sounds of it, Henry's de-escalation tactics weren't working, and Olena was questioning, pressing for answers; she mentioned Declan was searching, whether Henry really knew anything, what was he doing, where was his so-called friend that he was house-sitting for.
She breathed hard, staring her brother.
"Henry, please. Where is Leo?"
Henry's jaw ticked, and his gaze darkened, an edge entering his voice, "Olena, for God's sake, I don't fucking know—"
"Clearly you do! You simply must do, do you think I didn't see the purchase—"
She chokes on her breath, gasping slightly as pain flared in her abdomen. She takes a few shaky steps back, stumbling as her fingers grasped at the doorframe edge. Stumbling back out into the cold night.
Henry stood over her with a bloody knife.
In that moment she was struck by how cold he was looking at her. Her nerves were on edge, and she tried to scramble backwards, the gravel dug into her hands; her body instinctively struggled as she tried to push Henry off, to no avail, and too stiff from fear to scream.
She couldn't do anything, and as she weakened under his grip; he was yanked back.
Olena could only stare at the night sky.
Starless.
The dampness of the ground seeping into her back, the faint throb of her wounds.
Her gaze fluttered.
There was something distinct when one lays there dying.