"Deep breaths, baby," I tell her, my voice cracking, as I cradle the phone in crook of my neck. "Try to relax. The more excited you get, the faster your heart pumps and the more blood you lose."
"911, what's your emergency?"
"I need an ambulance right away," I say. "Nineteen year old female with an open chest wound from a gunshot."
I rattle off the address, and the dispatcher tries to give me instructions, asking me to stay on the line until help arrives, but I drop the phone, letting it hit the floor beside me, not bothering to hang it up. I still clutch tightly to her wound, trying to slow the bleeding, as my free hand brushes the hair from her face.
"Naz," she whispers. "Naz…"
"It's okay," I tell her, continuing to smooth her hair as I stare down at her. "I've got you. Just keep breathing, okay? You're going to be okay just as long as you keep breathing for me. You think you can do that?"
She nods weakly.
"Just keep breathing," I whisper, relishing every breath she takes, no matter how strained. "Just keep breathing."
She tries. Fuck, I can tell she's trying, but each inhale brings on a grimace of pain. Her face contorts with a cry as I brush away her tears. "Naz…"
"No," I say, shaking my head. "Don't try that bullshit. Don't Naz me. You just keep breathing and you're going to be fine. I promise. You can't… I can't lose you. I need you to keep breathing, Karissa. Help is coming soon. Just hold on for me."
Two minutes.
Four minutes.
Ten minutes.
A fucking century.
I don't know how long it takes before I hear the sirens in the distance, the lights flashing as they pull up in front of the house. It's the police first, then the EMS. People swarm the house, officers and medical personnel. Someone grabs ahold of me, pulling me away from her. Karissa turns her head my way when I'm dragged from the foyer, and I don't hear her voice, but I watch as her lips move, mouthing my name.
Naz.
I'm dragged outside. It's chaos.
Another century passes.
Maybe it's just a minute.
I don't know.
I don't know anything.
"Just keep breathing," I whisper to myself. "Keep breathing."
I blink, and officers surround me.
Another blink, and Karissa's being hauled away.
I try to force my way past the crowd, trying to get to her, but I'm restrained. There are too many people here. Where the hell did they come from? No matter how much I scream, how much I fight, the ambulance leaves without me, tearing through the street at full speed, sirens blaring.
A few more blinks. People are talking to me. Their voices are garbled. I can't fucking think. I grip my hair tightly, pacing in a circle, not saying a word except "keep breathing."
I don't know when it happened, but suddenly Jameson is there. Crime scene tape surrounds my house. I'm standing on my front step, covered in blood, my hands shaking. He stands in front of me, a concerned expression on his face. He's a blurry mass, and I blink to clear my vision, realizing I'm crying.
I'm fucking crying.
Again.
"I have to go," I say, trying to step around him. "I have to get to the hospital. I have to be there."
He steps in my path, half a dozen officers flanking him, blocking my way. I glare at him, nostrils flaring. I can feel the tears burning my eyes. It's pissing me off more than I'm already pissed.
"You want to stop me?" I ask, taking a step toward Jameson. "I dare you to try. I dare you."
The man shows no sign of anger, his troubled gaze leaving mine to look around. His attention settles on the lump in the grass covered in a white sheet.
"Just tell me what went on," he says before turning to me again, his expression earnest. "What happened?"
I hesitate.
"He shot my fiancée," I say. "He wanted us dead."
"So you killed him."
"So I stopped him," I correct him. "Justice was already served, Jameson. Not like you'd get any for me, anyway, but your work here is done. I did it for you... again."
He nods before stepping aside. "Go ahead. I'll have some questions for you later, but go on, get to the hospital."
I step past him, grabbing my keys as I head for my car.
"You're just going to let him go free?" Andrews asks with disbelief. "He just confessed to killing him, and you're letting him walk?"
"It was self-defense," Jameson says. "I want him behind bars as much as you, but we don't want to look like the bad guys here."
I get in the car, spinning tires as I speed away. I left my house wide open, crawling with police, but I don't care. Not anymore.
They can search every inch of it if they want.
They can burn it down for all I care.
Hospital waiting rooms are Purgatory.
It's that place, between Heaven and Hell, where you're forced to wait for your time, for word as to where you go next. It's not pleasant. In fact, it's torture. But you sit there, and you cling to hope, telling yourself it's not that bad, because you know it could always get worse.
Because you know it just might.
The room is brightly lit, the florescent lights above me flickering and hurting my eyes. Every blink burns. Every muscle in my body aches.
A kid screams in the corner. His mother sobs. An old man keeps sneezing. A woman won't stop talking. The noises surround me, a haze of chaos that makes my ears ring as I grip my hair tightly and stare at the door.
I stare.
And stare.
And fucking stare.
Just waiting for it to open, and for them to give me the final judgment.
Heaven or Hell.
Life or death.
It feels like I'm strapped to a gurney with a needle in my arm, except I don't know if it's a hospital room surrounding me or if it's actually an execution chamber.
A few more minutes.
I keep breathing, in and out, over and over, praying she is, too. Just keep breathing.
The door swings open eventually and a doctor steps out. Everyone around me stares at him, looking hopeful, but he stares right at me, his expression blank. He pauses before stepping toward me, appearing nervous.
My stomach sinks.
No.
No.
Don't say it.
Don't tell me she's gone, too.
Don't tell me her last word was my name.
"Mr. Vitale? Can I speak to you in private?"
I look away from him, glancing around the room. The mother is crying again. The kid is still screaming. The old man blows his nose as the woman tells him about her goddamn canker sores.
It's already Hell, I've decided, not Purgatory.