It's a fact that you can't help who you fall in love with. And for Rosaline Davenport and him, it definitely shouldn't have been each other.
Because, sometimes, love stories have blood on them.
[warning: this is the mother of all slow-burns]
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【 02.
Two
Raabta 】
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[ Raabta • divine/unexplainableconnection ]
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ZACHARY CAN TASTE the bile rising in his throat, can smell the nausea attacking him from all sides, can almost touch that metallic odour that fills the air around him. He doesn’t dare look down at the body in his arms, doesn’t even think of sparing a glance into the car, not believing he can bare another view of the streaks and stains splattered against the messy seat.
“Did your car break down?” he asks the man with the scar, who introduced himself as Garry Harker.
One breath in, another breath out. One breath in, another breath out.
“Well, obviously,” the man snaps, both irritation and anguish etched onto every line in his face. “It’s not like I stopped to pee or smoke because I find it entertaining to have the girl bleed out!”
One breath in, another breath out. One breath in, another breath out.
Zachary doesn’t respond to the burst of anger, doesn’t so much as even shoot the man a glare—he himself feels so out of control in this situation; he can’t begin to imagine what it must be like for Garry Harker, who seems to know the woman personally, if the way he keeps referring to her as girl instead of woman is any indication.
“Alright… alright,” he mutters under his breath to himself, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead and adjusting his hold on the woman without letting his eyes wander down. Don’t look, Zachary. Don’t look.
“Let’s get her into the taxi,” Zachary tells Garry Harker, his voice sounding stronger and steadier than he feels at the moment, the authority in his tone providing him with a composed exterior while his insides have turned into a trembling, quivering mess. “Open the door for me, go on.”
Garry Harker doesn’t need to be told twice, spinning on his heels and sprinting across the small distance between both vehicles, before grabbing onto the door handle, the blood on his hands making his hold slippery and Zachary watches him struggle a little more before he finally yanks the door open.
“Hey,” the taxi driver says, beginning to turn around with a packet of peppermint gum in hands, “Is everything o—oh, oh.” His eyes turn into saucers and his jaw drops open, the small rectangle he’s just placed on the tip of his tongue falling right out and landing somewhere between the edge of the seat and the gearstick.
