Pink Walls

Day Four [Part III]

TW//violence
***

6:47 a.m.

One breath.

Depth was a funny thing... when it came to thoughts and memories.

A familiar shade of blue could drag you into a ballroom with glittering cyan walls and floors of polished oak hundred of years old—the home of your grandfather's, father's and your sullied childhood.

The scent of cinnamon could conjure up the image of a small army of gingerbread men cooling on a tall stack of metal trays; the sound of vinyl spinning high on a tabletop, away from curious hands sticky with melted sugar.

The cold should have reminded me of Christmas.

It didn't.

My senses were overwhelmed by the stench of death and sweat and fear. I couldn't focus on the crispness of the air, just the sound of my raging heart and the blood rushing to my head.

Two breaths.

One click.

I spun around and grabbed the gun out of Daniel's hand before he could pull the trigger. He blinked at me, surprised.

I blinked back the memory, the bitter aftertaste of cinnamon remained at the back of my tongue.

"You really don't like guns, do you?" he asked, taking half a step away from me, like I was the dangerous one between the two of us.

I bit the inside of my cheek to stifle the urge to push him behind me before the impulsive part of me acted on it. Stop being paranoid, Kay, Ron's voice whispered in my ears, there's no one here.

Daniel raised an eyebrow when the gun's magazine fell to the ground, the sound loud and booming compared to our intermingled exhales and the silence surrounding us.

Three breaths.

I racked the slide to check that the chamber was empty—it wasn't. The cartridge bounced to the ground and rolled beneath the car beside us. I handed the weapon back to him.

"Aren't you going to empty the magazine too?" he asked, cheeky as always.

When I didn't laugh, he just shook his head and picked it off the floor. Ignoring the missing round, he shoved it into his pocket. "What now?"

I looked back at the car, peering through its window to stare at the peaceful expression of the man lying on the backseat.

Not breathing.

A part of me regretted throwing the cigarettes away. Lighting one would have been a welcomed distraction from whatever shit was about to go down. At least then I'd have an excuse for not being ready.

A spot of white flashed through the edge of my vision.

I turned to it—nothing.

I might have imagined it.

I probably didn't.

Four breaths.

"He's not waking up anytime soon," I told Danny, letting my gaze flit across the rest of the parking garage.

It was calm.

Too calm.

My fingers itched for something but I couldn't afford to lose any more knives, not when the day was still young and Daniel's father was running late.

"I guess that means no more driving for us," Danny said, still oblivious to the situation we had landed ourselves in.

I reached to my side and pulled Frank's knife out of its new holster.