Losers |H.S|

Chapter 42

~I'm a world of pain
And you're a safe place
When I run away
You're the only home I know
I'm still runnin'
I'm still runnin'~

Time never seemed to move slower.

The distinct rhythmical faint sound of the wall clock in this cold waiting room was ticking like a slow,painful thud in my mind, cancelling every other outer noise that surrounded me. Except my heavy breathing. That I could listen loud and clear, dragging agonizingly from my numb lips to my lungs. My vision covered by a hazy film, keeping my eyes and mind unfocused of the present, forcing the painful, involuntary pictures to resurface and take over again.

He was shot.

Harry was shot, in the middle of a full-crowded bar, by my one and only ex. The man that promised me shelter and pushed me further into the gutter. My pimp.

I should've trusted my gut with that club owner. I should've trusted my mind that I knew him, and never brushed by it lightheartedly. If I did, none of this would've happened. After all, my mind never once before has played a trick on me, never forgetting a face. Especially one that pitched in my suffering prostitution months.

How could I be so naive? How could I forget him?

And now Mark was here. And Harry was shot. Because of me. All of it because of me.

A single tear rolled from the corner of my blurry eye, carving its path down my cheek, while thin sweat traces the outline of my face.

I wasn't scared of him now. Nothing about him frightened me.The only thing that made my stomach churn and my chest tighten was losing him.

You can't be dead, Harry.

The horroring images flash through my mind, taunting me. The screaming of the crowd. The fateful bullet piercing through Harry's flesh. My cry tearing my chest open, as I watched my man dropping on his knees, right before my eyesight took a glimpse of Mark's barrel smoking.

Kneeled next to the bar's most beloved singer, with one hand cradling his head, while the other pressed on his wounded abdomen, I witnessed him drifting away, as his eyes blinked every time slower. His shirtless body an oxymoron image, white as paper and covered in sweat. His blood an impetuous stream, spilling out of his abdomen uncontrollably, even though I was trying with everything I had to stop it. My trembling hands covered with his crimson red livelihood, as I screamed at the top of my lungs for him to open his eyes. I watched his body's shaking falter, as his strong arm fell limp on the dirty floor, and all I wished was for him to open his eyelids back and shed light to my life with his piercing emerald eyes. All I wished was for all of it to be a bad joke.

One more gut-wrenching scream of his name rippled throughout my throat, as realization was smacking her callous hands across my face, making me aware that I was losing him. My ears were ringing loudly, hearing somewhere from afar Layla's voice calling for an ambulance and ordering the others to usher the crowd outside. My eyes were only able to see him. Still beautiful, like an angel that fell from the skies and hurt himself, lying unconscious.

My cheeks drenched with unstoppable tears, my whole body soaking in sweat, as I tried, sniffling, to search for any sign of pulse on his unmoving wrist.

And it was that little spark against my thumb that instantly electrified my veins. That little glimpse of hope that made me release the trembling breath I was holding in my chest. My lungs filled with courage and strength, just by that tiny sign.

He was still alive. Barely, but alive.

My ears zoomed back in reality and the first thing I heard was a yelled question by a man's familiar voice.