Complicated

Chapter Sixty One: Lost

I know he's living in hell every single day
And so I ask oh god is

There some way for me to take his place
And when they say it's all touch and go

I wish I could make it go away

David Cook - Permanent

There was blood on his hands, they were shaking as Don stared at them, turning his hands palms upwards as it ran down his fingertips. He remembered being surprised by how hot his own life force felt and now he was stunned all over again as it stained his skin vivid red. It was down the front of his shirt spreading faster over the open patches of skin that were branded and etched upon his flesh.

Laura was lying there before him flat on her back. Her head tilted at that odd broken angle that could only be imitated by corpses. Her body was twisted and bleeding, hands splayed out in the same way they had been in the morgue when he her. Her hazel eyes were glaringly open as he knelt before her immobile form.

There were cuts and burn scars all over her curvy freckled body. The brutal, seared marks mirrored the ones beaten into his own ruined flesh. He'd seen it a million times over in his own mirror but the view never failed to surprise him. The left side of her mouth where her scar should have been was torn open. Blood seeped from the wound leaking onto the concrete underneath them, he could see the flash of her teeth and gumline through the hole that Maplin had stretched up towards her cheekbone. He had a tiny scar on the corner of his own mouth from where the same had almost happened to him.

"I'm sorry." he murmured mournfully. "I am so sorry."

"He killed me." Laura said dully, her voice was a rasp that hissed through the gap at the side of her mouth.

"I know, I'm sorry." Don told her sincerely.

"He's killing you." Laura wheezed.

"I survived." Don retorted.

The corpse shook it's head and immediately he knew that her words were true. He kept telling everybody he was a survivor but it wasn't true. He was Maplin's victim as much as Laura had been, the only difference was that right now he wasn't brave enough to eat his own gun yet.

"He's killing you." she repeated.

Suddenly Laura was gone and he was back in the abattoir on his knees in front of Maplin's hulking form, the other man's hand was clenched around his throat. His fingers were locked on Don's windpipe, shaking the air right out of him as he bore down upon him.

"This is where you belong." the grizzled man told him, squeezing even tighter. "Your mine Detective, I'll never let you leave."

Don had woken up screaming hoarsely, his chest heaving as his breathes came in long drawn out gasps. The familiar white sheets had been twisted up around his body. His heart had been pounding against his ribs, his large hands reaching out for Grace before remembering that he wasn't at home.

Now Don was sitting downstairs in the cosy kitchen of his parent's house nursing a glass of milk before tearing open a pack of chocolate chip cookies. His vivid blue eyes were resting on the Glock laid out in front of him. His gun was beckoning to him as it had been for the past few days. Every time he had that nightmare he found himself sitting on the edge of the bed with his gun in his hand.

It always fit back in his hand like an extension of himself. The night before he had pressed the cool metal barrel against his temple and listened to the empty click as he pulled the trigger. He'd left the clip on top of the night stand, he had just wanted to see if he had the guts to do it and the truth frightened him because the answer was yes.