Tw: Suicide, self-harm
She had failed him and now he was gone.
Katrina lied on the floor, cape crumpled against the furniture, hand held out in front of her, clutching onto an invisible object. Shaking. Sweat dripping from her forehead. Eyes unfocused. Mouth agape.
She grabbed onto her mask, peeling it off of her face. It stuck to her for a moment, the blood having dried onto it.
A vibration across the room rattled her desk. Her phone again, likely her team mate to check in if she was doing okay. Or maybe asking why she hadn’t answered yet. If Katrina ignored it again, Charlotte would know something was going on.
Maybe that said all that needed to be said. Or maybe that was too much.
Pressing her hands against the floor, she eased herself back up but froze, wincing in pain as she agitated a gash in her back. She fell with an unceremonious thump! to the floor, eying the phone on her desk with disdain.
Blood. She remembered his blood. On the floor, on his suit, on her hands. He was just trying to give a speech. It wasn’t supposed to be his last. But he didn’t know that she would fail him.
Wordlessly, falling to the ground. Shock as he keeled over. Failure. Her failure.
Grunting, she rolled across the floor, tangling herself in her cape, until she slammed into her desk. Opening her eyes, chest heaving, she saw her phone looming above her like an eclipse. Gritting her teeth, she slammed into the desk again. The eclipse moved, covering more of the light above her. Another slam and the phone fell onto her chest.
Allowing herself a wicked grin, she let her head rest on the floor, cheek pushed against the carpet. Staring at the crack of light below her door, pain swirling around in her. The sight of the him lying before the podium drifted from her mind finally. But she remembered the pain. His pain and hers.
B L E E D I N G.
Without consciously thinking, she raised her left arm, peeling back her armor until her wrist was exposed. Rubbing a gloved finger against the flesh, it felt so smooth. So delicate.
On her bureau; scissors that she had used when putting her detective cork board together. She could already feel them in her hand, gliding through her…
She raised her hand up until it blocked the ceiling light from her vision. Another eclipse. She imagined it streaming from her wrist…falling onto her face…
H E ‘ S G O N E.
Her hands clutched her sides as the pain overcame her, tearing her body from the inside out, the scissors still on the bureau.
She didn’t realize when it had begun but her tears were flowing freely now. Hand shaking, she clawed at the phone on her chest.
The phone flickered on, showing a wall of messages from many of her team mates. Without looking at a single word, she slid the phone away from her; she could get back to it. She needed to get better before she could speak. She didn’t want to say anything stupid.
They couldn’t know.
She rolled onto her side, curling into a ball, shutting her eyes tight, trying to focus on something positive to pull her out of this.
H I S F A C E.
Knives ripped from the floor all around her, digging into her body. She tried escaping, dragging herself away from them, but more and more burst from the floor, slashing at her and stabbing her.
Y O U D I D T H I S.
Grabbing onto the phone, she pulled herself onto the bed, the gash in her back widening as she did so. She checked the screen again.
Her eyes darted back and forth, trying to take it all in. Gritting her teeth, she switched to her internet browser.
Laying her hand down beside her on the bed, she leaned back into her pillows. Like floating on air. It was over.
Then, suddenly, a knife tore through the fabric, jabbing into her. Like a nerve snapping, in her arm. Her hand sprang off the bed and clutched her chest as she typed in the phrase “SUICIDE HOTLINE.”
Taking in a deep breath, she listened to the calming dial tone, waiting for someone to pick up.
She was going to make it through this.
A click. Someone was on the other side.
Her throat tightened.
“I need help.”