FRIENDLY FIRE: A 9-1-1 fanfiction

Part Forty-Five: In The Letterbox

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EMMA

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Harry's house had two doors. One that led out into the yard, where my Chevy's tyre marks always used to ruin the grass, and the other leading into the garden. 

The door into the garden had saved my life more times than I could count because once you get over the fence, there would just be woodlands and forestry for miles.

I used to run through them, sober and high, finding meanings in the overgrown shrubs and the tilted trees.

I would talk to the empty air around me, pretending like Mikayla and Henry were walking beside me, and eventually, I imagined Paul there too.

Harry would always bring me back, though. He'd always find me before I got out onto the road, at least, usually he did. He made sure that my freedom was only as wide as the forest and as narrow as the road to work. Never a single step further.

"It looks... nice," Eddie mumbled, joining me on the other side of the car we'd borrowed from Jason. A truck that could just about get through the flooded roads without skidding into any ditches.

"It looks like a shithole," I muttered bluntly, leaning back against the passenger's side door.

"Well..." Eddie cringed, leaning back as well, "I wasn't sure who decorated, so I was trying to be nice."

A small smile lifted my lips momentarily before it fell again, "I hate this place."

Eddie reached out his hand, grabbing mine softly, weaving our fingers together, "You are in charge of how long you stay here. You get to decide when you leave."

I appreciated his words because they did actually help some way. They helped to keep me grounded as my mind swirled with all the dark thoughts that constantly followed and tried to consume me while I was here. All that death... and misery. All the pain.

Paul's death had been the reason I ended up here and the reason I left, too.

I could still remember running through the streets, my knees bloody from falling, my hands covered in scrapes, the phone in my hand dialling over and over again. 

He never picked up, but he'd waited for me to get there.

I remembered his smile, the gun under his chin already locked and ready, and all he'd said was,'It's okay. I'm happy.' Then, he was gone.

Harry had met me at the hospital, seen me covered in Paul's blood, and he'd said that it was time he took matters into his own hands. I ended up in this house for two years after that, reliving that day and the days before it.

I'd known Paul would try and kill himself before he actually did it. He made attempts that I'd stopped already. 

I'd had to run over to a local park when he tried to shoot himself there; I'd stood between him and thirteen police guns, yelling at them and at him. He lived that day.

Then... there was the rooftop... the one time I nearly went with him.

"Hey! Paul!" I called out, trying to keep my voice light as I balanced on the fire ladder that had been set out between the two roofs. "Whatcha doin' over there? It's a little cold for stargazin, huh?"

Police cars shined around us, radios buzzing with conversation, but I knew he couldn't hear them anymore than he could hear me.

"Hey," I said, walking across the ledge he was sitting on, sitting down beside him, my shoulder knocking into his, "what are you lookin' at way over there?"