Titanium Promises

Twenty-nine

TW: suicide ideation

I get lost in those seas of blue in Luke's eyes as he stands above me.

He blinks, his eyes glistening.

"Luke—" I gasp out again, the shock still settling in.

He doesn't meet my eyes as he picks up my limp body with ease and walks out of the alley, leaning me against the nearby concrete barrier.

"Luke," I say, sitting up despite the pain and reaching forward, grabbing his hand. I squeeze it firmly."How?"

He ignores me, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my phone. He immediately dials 911, and they pick up after a moment.

"I need police and an ambulance," Luke says, giving the address of the 7 Eleven to the operator. "Quickly." He hangs up, finally looking at me and crouching down to check that I'm still breathing.

"They'll be here in ten minutes," he says, looking away once again.

That's an eternity. But I need it to get him to talk.

Luke takes off his jacket, wadding it and pressing it against the outside of my wound. Then he wraps his arm around my back and guides me backwards.

"Lie down," he says calmly. "It'll slow the bleeding."

"Answer me," I say again, nearly pleading. "You were gone, they took you. I saw them... You were shot. Your brother shot you."

He still doesn't meet my eyes.

My voice lowers, as serious as I can make it through the pain. "How are you here?"

"It doesn't matter how I'm here," he says, not looking at me and continuing to put pressure on the wound. The pain slices across my abdomen and makes me gasp out. Luke flinches at the sound.

I open my mouth to say something, but he cuts me off.

"Don't say anything," he says. I don't know if it's because he doesn't want me to bleed more, or if he doesn't want me interrupting.

"I can't stay with you anymore."

"What?" My stomach clenches and drives the knife deeper into my side. I wince. "No, you escaped. You can stay here, you can stay with me—"

"No, I can't." His eyes go glassy. "The only reason I can be here is because I made a deal."

"What deal?"

"They were going to kill me," he says. "They tried."

My heart freezes as images of the scars on his black flash in my mind.

Images of him crying out in pain at the whip of a belt.

"And I didn't care," he whispers. "I didn't care what they did to me—how they hurt or tortured me. I would let them do whatever they wanted if that meant saving you."

"No," I choke out. "You couldn't have done that for me. Please, tell me you didn't."

The first of his tears falls.

I think back to when I left him in Massachusetts. How he was...

"Your shoulder," I say, jerking upwards.

He reaches to stop me, but I brush him aside and pull down the side of his jacket. His shoulder is still bloody, but I notice he tried to bandage it up with some sort of cloth.

"Jesus, you're bleeding—"

"Do you not see what's happening to you?" he asks, as if I'm delusional. "I thought you were dead. I got that one phone call, and hearing your voice nearly broke me."