GALEMETRYO

Chapter 12: In denial

After spending the entire day with Liz, we decided to leave school early, opting to pick up some food before heading to her apartment, which felt like a second home at this point. Once there, we set about our tasks. Cleaning became a therapeutic exercise, allowing us to create a comfortable space where we could lay our worries to rest.

As we both lounged on the bed, Liz calmly scrolled through her phone. The tranquility of the moment could have been deceptive, a stark contrast to the turbulence within me. I couldn't shake the feeling that, had I approached this day with more composure, perhaps I could have unraveled the mysteries that clung to my existence.

The concept of waking up multiple times only to face imminent death felt like a boundary to reality. Why me? Why was I chosen for this surreal predicament? The scenario seemed too fictional, yet it was undeniably happening. I grappled with the sheer impossibility of it all, unsure of what might unfold next.

Liz and I shared a bed, and as she casually scrolled through her phone, I found myself lost in thought, staring at the ceiling. The silence enveloped us, and even making noise seemed an impossible task. Then, breaking the stillness, Liz called my name.

"Ben," she said.

In response, I emitted a nonchalant "hmmm?"

"Should we sleep now?" she asked.

I agreed with a brief "yes," but the truth was, sleep eluded me. Despite the early hour, my mind buzzed with anxiety. I wasn't scared or afraid; rather, I couldn't fathom why these inexplicable events were befalling me. Among all the people in the world, why was I singled out? Did I truly deserve to be at the center of this complex and dangerous situation?

Lying beside Liz, the internal turmoil persisted. The heaviness in my chest seemed to weigh me down, yet I could do nothing but wait for the inevitable. Friends were the only solace I sought; the rest of the world faded in comparison. These thoughts echoed in my mind as I slept.

About an hour later, I stirred from my slumber, my eyes still closed but awake. I hesitated to move, yearning for a few more moments of repose. As I became more aware, I noticed an odd sensation—my hand was damp. Was it merely sweat, or something more?

Opening my eyes, I discovered my hand coated in a stickiness that exceeded the boundaries of mere perspiration. In a state of confusion, I wiped my face with my hands, only to realize my entire body was slick with an unfamiliar substance. My muscles ached, prompting me to ponder whether the day's activities had taken a toll.

Attempting to lift my right arm, I encountered unexpected resistance. Panic ensued as I realized I couldn't move it. Simultaneously, the realization hit me: this dampness was not sweat; it was blood.

In an instant, my eyes snapped open, and I sat up to assess the situation. The bed was bathed in crimson, and my panic escalated. Why was there so much blood? What was happening?

My desperate attempts to wake Liz were met with silence. A chill crawled down my spine. Liz lay lifeless, surrounded by a pool of blood. A surge of denial coursed through me—this couldn't be real. We were in her apartment; this shouldn't happen here.

"Liz, Liz, please wake up," I pleaded. The echo of my voice remained unanswered. Frantically, I shook her, hoping for a response. Nothing.

Overwhelmed by desperation, I tried to convince myself it was a prank. "Okay, you got me. You can stop now," I implored, my voice quivering. The silence persisted. Tears welled up as the truth clawed its way to the surface: Liz was dead.

I cradled her lifeless form, my mind scrambling for a rational explanation. The reality was too brutal, too implausible. Disoriented, I assessed the extent of her injuries. Bruises adorned her body, and her chest and stomach bore the brutal marks of a knife attack. Who would do such a thing?

As I grappled with the grim reality, a sense of numbness enveloped my right arm. Glancing down, my eyes widened in horror. I, too, bore the wounds of a brutal attack. The pain, initially suppressed by shock, now surged through me as I realized the gravity of our situation.

Screams erupted from my throat as I attempted to comprehend the unfathomable. My right arm, severed and bleeding, mirrored the gruesome fate that had befallen Liz. Panic set in as I desperately sought a lifeline—a phone to call for help. I am still in denial to the dire situation I am in right now. 

My own phone was dead, and Liz's was inaccessible, locked with a password. The timing couldn't have been worse. In this dire moment, with Liz's life hanging by a thread, calling for help seemed like an insurmountable challenge.

Blood continued to flow, threatening to consume us both. Desperation guided my actions as I tore a strip from my cotton shirt, attempting to stem the flow of blood from Liz's wounds. The makeshift bandages and my crude attempts at first aid were all I could muster.

In the chaos, a semblance of calm settled over me. Was it acceptance or desensitization? As I tended to Liz's wounds, elevating her body to mitigate blood loss, the mood of our situation weighed heavily on my conscience.

It struck me—maybe Liz had fought back, defending herself against an assailant. Perhaps, caught in the crossfire, I had become an unwitting witness to her struggle. Did Liz sacrifice herself to protect me?

With teary eyes and a determined resolve, I whispered to her lifeless form, "I promise that I will avenge you."