Now We're Even (#Wattys2017)

i) night

He's going to kill me.

James scrambled to his feet, his head pounding from where it had hit the corner of the dining table. His whole body hurt. His heart was beating faster than he had ever felt it before. He felt as if he'd run a marathon, and he hadn't even made it to the apartment's front door.

Need... to get out.

Some small part of James dragged his feet forward, even though he had to lean against the wall to do it. His vision was beginning to swim before him, likely a result of the head injury. His back was stinging, having been slammed up against a wall. Every step felt like a race, every minute felt like an hour.

James was struggling, but he knew that he had to get out. He had no idea where he would go. Even though he knew that nothing would stop once he got out of the door, he had to try. At least in the hallways people would be able to hear his screams.

His head was spinning. His back and his ankles were screaming with effort, already starting to swell and bruise. He made it out of the dining room. He was almost at the front door, dizzy with fear, tears and blood mixing to distort his vision.

So close. Don't give up yet. So close.

His ankle twisted and gave out underneath him.

Screaming out in pain, he hit the ground head first, his arms too numb to stop his fall. Gracelessly, his chin smashed against the wooden floor, snapping his head back with a loud crack. James managed a cry of agony, the small sound being the only thing his throat could give out.

Behind him, he heard a crash, the sound of wood splintering as the bedroom door was kicked, shoved. James felt bile rise up within his throat, pure panic taking over him. He tried to shove himself up, but his arms were lead, the whole world weighing him down. He was sobbing, the tears obscuring his sight even more. Weaker by the second, he knew he wouldn't last long.

Even though he was a medical student, he'd never thought he'd have to use emergency techniques on himself. Still sobbing, he managed to drag one arm out from underneath him. He pulled a pair of nail scissors out of his jeans pocket, left over from yesterday's attempt at cutting his nails back. Silently, he gave a thanks for his forgetfulness. He had never imagined it could save his life.

He knew that, once the bedroom door was broken, he wouldn't have much time left. Soon, he'd be found, bleeding on the floor. He'd be stabbed, the kitchen knife his attacker held snapping as it buried itself in his stomach. 

But, until then, he would do what he could.

He couldn't get up- his ankle was bruised and battered. He couldn't lean against the wall, because he didn't have the strength to push himself up. Instead, he lay completely still, grabbed the scissors, and starting cutting the left sleeve of his shirt.

Once he'd gathered enough material, he let the scissors drop to the ground. His hands were trembling, his breathing a short staccato of fear and pain.

He thought back to what he had learned, and grabbed at the discarded shirt material. His hands were dirty and slick with blood and sweat, but he didn't care. Using all of his strength, he pressed the cotton up against his forehead, wincing as it scraped against the wound. He didn't mind the pain. 

He heard another crash, and moaned in fear and panic. The door wouldn't hold for long; even though it was locked on the outside, it was cheap and flimsy. James knew he didn't have very long, so he held the cotton to his head and focused on crawling towards the door.

Every movement hurt him, but he pushed forward, his arms scraping against the rough wooden floor. He made it to the door, and almost cried out with relief. His hand reached up, his whole body screaming with effort as he tried, desperately, to grab at the doorknob.

His hand was on it when he heard a final crash, and footsteps marching towards him.

"N... no," James choked, his whole body shaking as sobs shot through him. "Pl... please. Please."

Oh my god, please.

Please.

The footsteps stopped, and James saw a shadow fall over the door. He froze, his hand slipping off the doorknob, hitting uselessly against the floor. 

He looked into his attacker's eyes, those eyes that he had once loved, and saw nothing but a void, nothing but emptiness. Those were not the eyes he had known. They were broken.

"I'm sorry," Ali whispered. "This is for your own good."

James didn't have time to respond, because the knife Ali was holding went straight through his stomach. 

He screamed in agony, threw himself forward. It was like being on fire. He could see the dark blood spreading through his shirt. The cotton that had stuck to his drying head wound ripped off as he slammed into the door, his whole world spinning. Blood poured up his throat.

I'm going to die here.

He's the one that's going to kill me.

I loved him.

Ali, why?