Shattered hearts

Chapter Fourteen: "Fear"

Griffen:
A chill coursed through my veins as the atmosphere in the room thickened with an unsettling stillness. My thoughts raced wildly, trapped within the confines of her space. The danger lurked just beyond the threshold, and panic surged through me. I was in deep trouble—there was no way out, and the weight of that realization pressed heavily on my chest. Desperation clawed at me as I ripped my fingers through my hair, searching for a flicker of courage amidst the chaos. My heart pounded so fiercely it felt as if it might leap from my throat, and I pressed my ear against the door, straining to catch any sound that might break the oppressive silence. All I could discern was a harsh, ragged breathing, primal and raw, echoing the presence of something feral lurking just outside.
The vivid imagery of what awaited me on the other side of the door flooded my mind. I imagined a mountain lion, its powerful form wreaking havoc in the apartment, leaving destruction in its wake. The couch would be torn apart, the trash can overturned, and deep claw marks would mar the door, a testament to the chaos that had unfolded. My imagination spiraled, each detail amplifying my sense of dread. I was caught in a nightmare, and the reality of my situation felt increasingly dire. Just as I was about to succumb to the overwhelming fear, a soft voice broke through the tension, pulling me back from the brink of panic.
"Draven?- D?- Are you awake?" Her voice was a stark contrast to the menacing energy that had filled the room moments before. It was fragile and childlike, as if a switch had been flipped in her demeanor. The transformation was jarring; one moment she had seemed like a creature of darkness, and now she sounded vulnerable and lost. This sudden shift left me bewildered, caught between the remnants of fear and the flicker of concern for her well-being. I hesitated, torn between the instinct to flee and the urge to respond to her call.
I took a deep breath, a desperate attempt to fill my lungs as if I could consume all the air in the room, yet it still felt insufficient. I stood tall, though the pressure pressing down on me felt like it could fracture my spine at any moment. Gathering my courage, I called out through the door, "Anya? Are you alright?" My voice trembled, betraying the anxiety that coursed through me. The only reply was an unsettling silence that hung in the air like a thick fog.
"Damn it," I muttered under my breath, grappling with the reality that I was about to embark on what might be the most reckless decision of my life. With a shaky resolve, I reached for the lock, my fingers trembling as I turned it. As the door creaked open, I felt the oppressive weight of uncertainty dragging at me, each movement feeling as if my joints were made of heavy stone, reluctant to cooperate.
Stepping into the unknown, I braced myself for whatever lay ahead. The stillness was almost deafening, amplifying the thudding of my heart in my chest. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was crossing a threshold into something I might not be able to return from, but the need to know if Anya was okay pushed me forward, despite the fear that clung to me like a second skin.
The sight that greeted me was beyond my worst nightmares. Anya's hideout lay in utter disarray, a chaotic scene that suggested something far more sinister than mere vandalism. Debris was strewn across the floor, remnants of shattered paintings littering the space like forgotten memories. The exquisite vases that once adorned the room were now nothing but fragments, and the couch, once a cozy refuge, had been viciously torn apart. As I took in the devastation, my heart raced with dread as I searched for Anya, but she was nowhere to be seen, leaving an unsettling void in the air.
Hesitantly, I made my way down the dimly lit hallway, my eyes drawn to a disturbing smear of blood that marked the wall. Each step felt heavier as I followed the trail, a sense of foreboding tightening around me. When I finally reached the end of the corridor, I was confronted with a horrifying sight that made my stomach churn. There, painted in a chilling display, was a figure that sent shivers down my spine. Anya had created a grotesque image of a man, using her own blood as the medium. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut, and I took a step closer, my mind racing with questions and fears.
Panic surged through me, forcing me against the wall as I struggled to comprehend the scene before me. The raw emotion of fear and anger coursed through my veins, a potent mix that left me reeling. Anya was in danger, and I had no clue where she might be. My gaze remained locked on the mural, my body paralyzed by a sense of dread. The longer I stared at the figure, the more it became clear that it bore an uncanny resemblance to me—Griffen. This was not the mask she had known; this was the raw, unfiltered version of myself, and the implications of that realization sent a wave of terror crashing over me.
A whirlwind of questions swirled in my mind, but I had to maintain my focus. Anya was missing, and I needed to find her. It felt as though time had come to a standstill as I began to throw open doors, my heart racing with urgency as I searched every corner for any sign of her. Panic surged through me; how could she have vanished without a trace? It was impossible for someone to just disappear into thin air. As I approached the final door, the one I suspected would be locked, dread settled in my stomach.
To my horror, I noticed drops of blood staining the floor, leading me to the weapons room—the only place in this entire facility that was off-limits to me. The door was constructed from a thick, tempered glass, and I pressed my face against it, desperate for a glimpse inside. There she was, just a few feet away, slumped on the floor with the release button ominously positioned above her head. My heart sank as I tried to assess her condition, but it was when my gaze fell upon her wrist that the horrifying truth struck me. The blood was definitely hers, and it dawned on me that she had created the gruesome mural of me with it from the gashed skin on her wrist, now leaking on the tiles.
In a surge of adrenaline, I began pounding on the glass door, my fists striking with a force fueled by desperation. I wasn't sure if I was trying to rouse her from whatever state she was in or if I was simply trying to break through the barrier that separated us. Each blow sent vibrations through the glass, and I could feel the urgency of the moment pressing down on me. I needed to get to her, to save her from whatever nightmare she was trapped in, and the realization that I was so close yet so helpless only intensified my frantic efforts.
After what seemed like an endless stretch of time, she finally lifted her head to meet my gaze, and a wave of relief washed over me. I let out a scream, careful not to frighten her further, urging her to reach for the button located just a few feet above her head to open the door. My mind raced with urgency; I needed to get to her, to help her before it was too late. The thought of losing her was unbearable, and I steeled myself with determination. I cannot let her die. I will not allow that to happen.
She moved slowly, her body seemingly weighed down by the loss of blood, each motion deliberate and labored. It was as if she were a sloth, struggling to find her footing as she stood, swaying unsteadily. Frustration bubbled within me, and I cursed under my breath, urging her, "Just press the button, Anya." Finally, she managed to push it, and as the door creaked open just enough for me to slip through, she suddenly collapsed. My instincts kicked in, and I rushed forward, catching her head just before it could hit the unforgiving tiled floor.
Time seemed to freeze as I held her, my heart racing at the sight of her injury, the bone visible beneath her skin. In a moment of desperation, I tore the bottom of my shirt, fashioning strips to bind her wrists tightly, hoping to staunch the flow of blood. She didn't even flinch at the pain, her body too weak to react. I quickly checked for a pulse, my fingers pressing against her neck, and felt the faint thump of her heartbeat. Relief mingled with dread as I whispered, "God damn it, Anya," knowing that every second counted in this fight to save her.
I lifted her into my arms, her body going completely slack against me. A wave of frustration washed over me as I muttered a curse under my breath. With urgency, I pressed the button to open the door, watching it slide aside as I hurriedly carried Anya toward the bathroom. My mind raced as I searched for anything that could help her; calling an ambulance was out of the question for now, as I knew they would bombard me with questions I wasn't ready to answer. Under the sink, I discovered some gauze and what appeared to be tape, which I hoped would serve as a makeshift solution for the soaked shirts I had used to bind her wounds. Time was of the essence, and I could feel her body growing colder by the second.
I quickly filled the bathtub with warm water, making sure to keep her clothed out of respect for her dignity. As the water rose, I dashed into the living room, desperate to find her phone. Perhaps there was an emergency contact who could provide assistance. After flipping the couch onto its side in a frantic search, I finally located her phone, my heart racing with hope. I scrolled through her contacts, my eyes widening as I stumbled upon her emergency information. The list of diagnoses was alarming—depression, anxiety, delusional disorder, explosive disorder, and more. Each entry felt like a weight pressing down on my chest, a stark reminder of the struggles she faced.
Finally, I reached the bottom of the page and found a number for her mother. Relief washed over me, knowing I had a potential lifeline to someone who could help. But first, I needed to call the paramedics. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the conversation ahead. I knew I had to act quickly, balancing the urgency of the situation with the need to protect Anya's privacy.
I realized that calling the paramedics wouldn't be effective; they simply wouldn't arrive in time to help her. In a panic, I hurriedly gathered my belongings, making sure to take her front door keys with me. With urgency coursing through my veins, I scooped her up and dashed toward the nearest street, knowing that was my only chance. As I rounded a corner, I carefully set her down on the sidewalk, ensuring she was as comfortable as possible. I quickly dialed the paramedics, explaining to the dispatcher that I had stumbled upon her while walking. I also reached out to her mother, relaying the same information to keep her informed.
When the paramedics finally arrived, they began asking a series of questions, and I felt a wave of helplessness wash over me as I admitted that I didn't have any answers. I explained that I had found her phone and had called her emergency contact, which was her mother. They took notes and assessed the situation, preparing to transport her to the hospital. As they loaded her onto the stretcher, I felt a profound sense of loneliness envelop me, the darkness of the night closing in around me. I was left standing there, grappling with the weight of the situation and unsure of what to do next.
In an effort to regain some sense of control, I decided to return to her hideout to tidy up the chaos that had unfolded. It felt like the least I could do in this moment of uncertainty. In my haste, I had left her front door unlocked, so I stepped inside and began searching for cleaning supplies. As I rummaged through the drawers, I stumbled upon a spare key, which I assumed was for the front door. This discovery made my task easier, allowing me to come and go freely as I worked to restore some semblance of order amidst the turmoil.