Black Iris

Cried wolf

Iris

The world felt blurry.

A strange fuzz crept over my whole body, as though it were growing over my ears, my lips, my eyes, my skin. Obscuring my vision, making my mouth feel strange and dry.

And where my heart had once been now sat like an empty chasm, an aching void swallowing me whole.

I was closest when she fell.

They both did. Blake collapsed against her first, and the weight of him brought her down too.

Around me, screaming began. And more gun shots. My ears started ringing as I dropped to her side.

Hands shaking, struggling to breathe, I tried pushing Blake off of her. Then, Jordan was there, sobbing, helping me push.

God, there was so much blood.

In the fuzz, the warm, stickiness of it felt strange. Otherworldly. Together, the two of us managed to get him off her, the man heaving and groaning in pain. I didn't fucking care. He could bleed out for all I cared.

But the girl beneath... she had been through hell with me. Taken on our demon. Protected me, saw me, even when I kept fucking up.

"Ophelia," I said, my voice shaking. "Ophelia, are you okay?"

The words were dumb. A desperate plea to a bleeding form. My fingers found her stomach, the wound in her side, that told me she'd been hit by the shot. It was gaping beneath black and red lace.

The sight of the blood, soaked lingerie brought my focus back to my own, and the exposed skin, shining like a beacon under the harsh stage lights. More shots were fired, elsewhere in the room. They weren't at us, but yet...

"We need to get down. Off this stage. Find shelter," I panted out, to Jordan. "We're too exposed here."

She blinked, looking up at me with fear in her eyes. No, not fear. Terror.

"I don't want her to die," she whispered.

I glanced down at her hands, blood-covered, desperately holding Ophelia's hand.

"She won't," I said firmly. "But we need to get her, and us off this stage."

Someone screamed behind us, and there was a thud and crack of bone as a man on the floor fell.

People yelling, scrambling behind machinery. I glanced at it quickly, barely taking it in, then grabbed one of Ophelia's arms, under her shoulder. "Get the other," I told Jordan. She obeyed.

Biting my lip to keep back the bile rising in my throat, we dragged her, together, off to the side of the stage. I climbed down to the floor and pulled her body towards me while Jordan followed. With her help, we managed to get her to the concrete floor, the stage sitting at our waists beside us.

Another lot of gun shots rang out. "Get down," I hissed to Jordan. She did, huddling against the the black plywood beside us, desperately pressing a hand against Ophelia's wound.

Right. The wound.

I recalled all I knew about flesh wounds, the first aid I'd taught myself from years of Blake pushing too hard.