ɪɴɴɪᴛ | ᴍᴇᴍᴇᴜʟᴏᴜs

•°•14•°•

After the explosion, my ears rang sharply. Alex called 999 for an ambulance and the police. The car was in flames and Beth and the driver were nowhere to be seen. Alex and I were slightly ashy and pretty much bound to the ground by shock.

The ambulance took unconscious George and friends while the Fed's took Alex and I to the station for an inteview and to calm down. We explained everything. Our worry, our suspicions. They let us go on home after they gathered the story. I told them about the make-shift bomb. About Beth.

Alex and I cleaned ourselves up in the bathroom, using flannel to wipe our hands and faces.

"Do you think they'll arrest her?" He spoke out of the silence.

"I hope so," I spat, gritting my teeth "the fucking bastard can die for all I care. She's got away with far too much. Two accounts of murder...well one account, potentially two or more."

"Well she murdered my footage and that's despicable." Alex dumped his flannel in the sink. He then left to go shower in his bathroom. I took to opportunity to take one too and reflect.

Warm droplets impaled my bare, cold skin. The soot washing away along with my hope. My eyes fixed on the drain, watching my last segments of joy, love and hope drowning away. I wasn't one to cry. I cried. It was a good coping mechanism to release the thought of losing George and my life again. I cried. I was crying. Crying because I could see my life shattering. One person caused to much trouble out of selfishness. She gained a lot from me. I was a toy and she was being entertained. Some way or another, she would end up controlling me and I couldn't do anything to stop it.

I'm not sure for how long but after the breakdown in the shower, I sat on our bed. Flashbacks of police lights and sirens, bodies, fireworks, colours. A blur. I could've stopped it. I should've. But I didn't. I knew something would happen and it did and it was my fault for not telling George. After that I just went to bed....alone. No George to keep me warm and safe- I'll be right back." And the room went back to dark. Sobs of frustration. Echoes. Regrets.

"The week after, I was allowed to visit George in hospital. I didn't see anyone else. George mattered most. I remember walking in and having pain slap me round the face. He was out. A coma for who knew how long.

I sat on the stool next to his bed. The, the crisp, cold white sheets with my world tucked beneath it. My hand intertwined with his and I ribbed my thumb against his skin. His face was relaxed and peaceful. The room was disgustingly peaceful, the only noise coming from the machine - the only indicator that George was alive. The beeps were slow...and spaced. I wished my heart would stop beating at that point. Put me out of the misery.  Sometimes I wish I had never fallen in love, it would avoid the stress of falling out of it. But I wasn't near falling out...only losing the person.

I brought his hand to my cheek. My wet cheek with tears streaming, pits of coloured darkness staring at his face, his features, taking one last look.

My lips warm against his numb, warm ones. The energy never fading.

I visited everyday that week. Everyday never got better and never changed. I'd walk in, sit down and look at him. Kiss him. Making sure he'd never forget me or the feeling when he woke up. Hoping that when he woke up, he would immediately feel welcomed with my presence. I needed him. I really did. I'm strong. I'm not independent. I'm not anything. George helped me cope. Gave me company. Strength. Safety. He had so much. He was everything. And I was nothing. A leech. A parasite clinging onto him. But this time, he needed me.

Friday was the last time I saw him. The doctor told me the situation and I had to make a vital decision. I gave my answer and left to room, taking a last glance and my beloved boyfriend before I left him.