Clichés In the Dark Past {FIN}[Editing]

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Jay's P.O.V.

I just stood there, frozen in motion, praying to God that he didn't shoot her. That he didn't kill her. Then it all happened, as if it were slow motion, but I still wasn't fast enough. He fired. And he shot her in her side. She fell to the ground, breathless, sending me running to her as Don fled the scene. She laid on the ground, her head resting in my lap as we both cried tears. I've survived gun shots, but Beyoncé, she's much too precious, much to fragile for this.

"Baby, hang on, hang on, we're gonna get through this." Her eyes were halfway closed, and I doubted that she could even make out my face clearly. I kissed her forehead delicately and scooped her into my arms, bridal style, carrying her to the car with a quickness. I sped down every road, every street, trying to think of what to do. Bey was much better at this. How did she think so quickly when I got shot? She's the real brains of the operation. Think, Jay, think. Hospital is automatically not an option, that is, unless we want to be taken into custody again. Our best bet at this point is to use a first aid kit. As I accelerated down the roads, I felt Bey squeeze my hand. Not a heavy, sure, squeeze, but rather a weak, 'I'm dying and I love you' squeeze. That's when the tears came heavier than before, making the street lights appear like circular blobs.

"I.... I love you," she said in a ghostly chilling whisper. I pulled into the spot of a Motel 6, parked crooked, but who cares? I'm trying to save my wife's life here.

"I love you more... You aren't going to die.. You, you can't die. Everything is going to be fine." I carried Bey in my arms again before I burst into the lobby with my gun at the ready. "I need keys."

"Sir, I need ID." I sighed and pointed my gun at his head.

"Let's try again. I need a key." He slid it over with trembling fingers, his last move before I shot him. I ran to the room, seeing the light begin to dim in her eyes. "Don't give up on me yet, baby please, fight for me." Once in the room, I laid her onto the bed and ran to grab the first aid kit. I rolled up her shirt to reveal the bleeding shot wound that blemished her soft, clear skin. I tried to remember what she did when I got shot.... I put a cotton pad against some hydrogen peroxide and dabbed at the shot.

"Damn it!" It hurt me to see her hurting, especially knowing that I was the cause for this. I should've left her alone the moment I met her. I have put her in harm's way ever since we met years ago and if I had done what I knew what was right, she wouldn't be laying here with a gunshot wound, a criminal on the run. When I thought that the shot might be clean, I decided to try and pry the bullet out. I picked up the tweezers and steadied my wrist on her perfectly sculpted hips before closing the tweezers on the bullet and pulling it out. "Shhhhhit," she whispered. At least she was still conscious. That's my goal; keep her conscious and she won't die... I hope. I then picked up the pad that was still saturated with the peroxide and dabbed at the wound again. This time, instead of cursing, she gripped the sheets and gritted her teeth through the pain. After watching her bear the pain, I picked up the needle, threading it as best I could, and began to sew her skin back together, struggling to keep a straight line. I exhaled, finally realizing that this entire incident would soon be in the past. Beyoncé was not going to die. When I finished stitching, I tied a secure knot and cut the excess thread before kissing her lips, feeling her llips pucker against mine, faintly.

"Sleep, princess." I tucked her under the rough, cheap covers of the motel bed and strocked my thumb across her cheek. I need to get her out. Us out. Out of this country. And fast.

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I gazed at Bey's sleeping figure lying on the bed, the sunlight beginning to seep through the blinds. I rolled over, grabbing my phone, and dialed Sean Desied (Sean Penn). It rang a few times before he picked up.