The Book Of Me & You

"It's Hard To Be Brave When You're Alone In The Dark"

Screams.

They bounced off the walls but were muffled by the crackling in the air. The sky was hazy and hard to see through the thick black all around. The ringing was getting louder, making the screaming lower in pitch but still able to be heard.

He lay there, partially motionless against the once cool grass now sprinkled with soot and... blood.

The ringing continued, getting worse as he struggled to open his eyes and lift his head off the ground. The blood dripped into his eye, causing him to wince from the pain throughout his body, but his hand clamped hard into the dirt, trying to gather his surroundings.

A whimper passed his lips when he tried to move, a deep gash and a burn to his left arm caused him to cry out in pain, and regain enough vision to see the carnage around him. The carnage of someone else's doing.

The swingset his children loved, was now a desecrated pile of melted plastic, ashes, and soot. The garden Kathleen created was reduced to nothing more than charred piles of leaves. And the grass beneath his battered body was hot like coal and singed; the blades of vibrant green were now nothing more than handfuls of hot ash.

The screams had returned, now reverberating in his ears so loudly, it felt like someone pounding into his skull.

He looked up weakly, pushing himself to balance on his left knee; stomach dropping in horror at the flames shooting up from the guesthouse roof; licking its surroundings with no remorse for what stood inside it.

The place they were.

The place where they would be the safest.

Quickly, managing to stand, wasting no time in racing to the house, "Amy!" He yelled, limping his way to the door, "AMY!" His throat was burning both from the smoke and the lump like broken glass lodged inside it. "AMY!" He grabbed the handle, pulling and pushing with all the strength he had to pry it off the hinges to no avail - something very heavy was barricading it from the inside - and the thick smoke billowing caused the little window at the top to become nearly impossible to see through.

Putting his burned arm over his face, he coughed violently and went to the next window, this one almost completely blacked out except for one, tiny, sliver.

That sliver allowed him to see what he feared the most: Amy.

She was lying on the floor, a deep gash on her forehead as the fire engulfed the room around her. She was motionless and weak, the blood pooling around her limp body.

"No..." He shook his head repeatedly, crying loudly and beating the window, "NO! No! No! No! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" The flames were getting closer to her, and it took every single ounce of power in his legs to place his boots on the glass and just start kicking; repeatedly and mercilessly until it shattered and his foot felt the heat of the flames.

Crawling through and ripping his side in the process, he swallowed roughly and went to her; scooping her battered frame into his, but just as quickly stumbling and fell to his knees. He was hurt and so was she. Bad. The blood oozed from his side, just as it bubbled from her abdomen. He bit his lip hard to muffle the scream as he laid her gently on the floor and put two fingers to her neck. Her pulse was thready, the same way it was right before she went into shock after giving birth, and her lips were pale. Shaking, he ran his hand over her face and brushed the deep gash on her head with his thumb, hoping that the action would at least make her wince; give him a sign that she was alive and would be okay.

But the blood pouring from her head was the least of the problems because as his hand went lower, he saw it. He saw the large dark red spot on her stomach; the hole gaping and spilling blood all over her once pale blue shirt. He didn't have to inspect it, he already knew it was a bullet hole by the amount of blood and the position of the wound. Now the question arose - who shot her?