Teacup and Bullets

 

There was a gun shot. It was as loud as it was brutal and it sent streams of harsh light underneath my eyelids.  But something was missing. Something vital.

 

The pain.

 

There wasn’t any. The only thing I could feel was a dull stab in the back of my head. In a blur I was tossed to the floor, the hard plastic grazing my elbows. No gun shot. No pain. No death.

 

But that didn’t make sense. The gun shot, it had to hit something. I stood up, urgency blinking away the blur in front of my eyes.  My legs, which already felt like jelly, wobbled further into impossibility. My heart pounded too loudly in my ears and the walls seemed to sweat and distort.

 

The bullet hadn’t missed.

 

The reality of that fact made my breath come in gasps and sent me stumbling over my canvas only to collapse near the door.

 

Joe Sampson. 17. I couldn’t figure him out. He seemed nice and mean at the same time. Football star. Cute, friendly and with his life ahead of him.

 

He died acting the hero, something so rare in a contemporary world filled with materialism and self-obsession.  He died and it was my entire freaking fault.

 

God, I was angry.

 

I didn’t look at the body, even though I could feel his blood seeping through my shoes. I could hear it, the blood, pattering to the floor. I felt the tension in my knees the only signal that a huge torrent of merciless anger was building up inside of me.

 

“Oh, no. I broke him.” I clenched my fists and cast my eyes to the ground. I feared if I looked at his face I would do something rash and stupid that would get me killed. “Sorry about that, honey. Looks like your single now.”

 

Something shuddered darkly inside of me. I hated him, the true burning hate that brings the world to a stop and causes the sun to explode. My hand fumbled for the door knob. I knew I had to get out or I was the next target. “Oh well, I can organise a reunion.” He aimed his gun at me and my hands fumbled more frantically. It was hard, eyeing a gun and looking for a doorknob. I felt the panes of smooth glass swipe through my fingers. Come on.

 

I heard a click and I knew that was the drastically short count down to my second death. How awesome would it be if I could regenerate just about now?

 

It was like there was no one else in the room. My teacher and my peers faded into the background. Sure as hell they weren’t going to help me. I would have to help myself.

 

My hand closed around something metal and smooth and my heart leaped in a frantic somersault. I might actually get out of here.

 

The knob turned and the door swung back, just as the dark haired serial killer pulled the trigger. I raced out of the door and into the senior’s hall, the lockers stationed on the crème walls like blue metal soldiers. I ran for my God damn life. I didn’t even stop when the small bullet punctured the glass door and I heard the shard of glass fall to the floor. I didn’t even stop when one of them got lodged in my leg.

 

All I knew, all I could be sure of, was that I had to get as far away from the art room as possible.

 

I reached a corner, panting and sweating and bleeding. I kept running, adrenaline giving me the strength I needed to keep going.

 

Suddenly I ran into something solid. Something with a heartbeat. I screamed as a pair of strong hands wrapped around my body.  I squirmed and writhed but nothing had an effect. All I could see was the black of the shirt they were wearing. Not another one, not another fight.

 

My screams turned into sobs, the past events finally catching up to me. I heard a voice, his chest vibrating with every word.

 

“Shit, Rosalie! What the freaking hell is your problem?” The hands disappeared and I stumbled back, getting the first look at my kidnapper.  He had dark hair up to his shoulders and eyes the colour of the night sky. His handsome face was sweaty and dirty and his eye brows were raised sarcastic questioning.

 

Daman Winters.

 

“Oh, um, hi.” I said lamely. “I didn’t know it was-”

 

“Didn’t know it was me? Yeah, I got that.” We looked each other for moments, time freezing as relief washed over both of us. “I am so glad you’re alive.” He breathed out, embracing me in another hug. I let him, I mean, come on? Who was I to refuse a hug?

 

“Me too.” I whispered into his chest, frantically holding on to him. “Me too.”