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A/N: Since this takes place in Bucharest and I'm not a Romanian speaker/don't want to Google translate an entire conversation, dialogue that is supposed to be "in Romanian" will be in Italics and written in English. PLEASE KEEP THIS IN MIND FOR THE REST OF THE FIC. I was going to put it in the content warnings/notes, but I find people tend to skip those.
CW: Discussions of trauma, mental health issues, suicidal ideation, discussions of suicide, discussions of hospitalization, addiction issues, vomiting (some people get freaked out by this so I warn for it regardless), alcoholism and drug dependency, nightmares, grief, discussions of death, gun violence, mentions of blood.
This is going to be a heavy first chapter to read. I wrote it processing some grief of my own.
The rest of this book is going to be an absolute shitshow.
No, I'm not afraid to disappear The billboard said 'the end is near.' I turned around, there was nothing there. Yeah, I guess the end is here. - Phoebe Bridgers, "I Know the End"
BUCHAREST, ROMANIA (AUGUST, 2015)
Every night is the same. She closes her eyes and slips into darkness.
Sometimes she dreams, and when she does, it's always the same.
A gunshot sounds from nowhere. The sound of Mark's breath hitching in his chest, his eyes widening.
They both look down at the same time to see a crimson stain spreading across his belly.
Another gunshot — this time, through the base of his throat.
Blood leaks out of his mouth like honey, and his green eyes slide to the right.
They both know it's the end. They've been agents long enough to know that; seen enough wounds to know that. They've lost enough partners to know that.
She drops to her knees with him, screaming for backup.
Nothing comes, and the last thing she sees is a flash of darkness out of the corner of her eye. Someone moving.
Running.
She can't leave Mark, but she does.
Her heartbeat sounds like a drum in her head, thumping way wildly as her feet hit the pavement. Whoever shot him is fast. All she sees is darkness, and then doesn't hear anymore footsteps as she skids to a halt.
Her alarm goes off at 7:00am and she wakes up in a pool of her own sweat, holding out one hand and gasping for air. Reilly rolls over and reaches for her inhaler, taking two puffs. Hold in for four, and breathe out for four.
Her lungs open and the pressure on her chest eases.
Every morning is the same.
She rolls out of bed and stumbles to the shower to cry for 30 minutes, and then she puts a frozen eye mask on her eyelids to keep the puffiness at bay and covers up the broken blood vessels with makeup.
