Chapter Text
Warning: gun violence, upsetting descriptions of scenery/violence, blood and otherwise
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The scariest part about dying isn’t accepting the inevitable.
“HR forty over sixty and falling! We need a crash cart!”
Blurbs of blaring fluorescent faze above her diverged line of sight. The light psychically stings, the ring in her ears is agonizing, an endless blaring assault. It's like she isn’t even breathing on her own, there’s no synopses firing in her brain; in fact, not much of anything is happening up there. Elastic straps bury into her plush cheeks: they belong to the oxygen mask muzzled against nose and mouth. The artificial oxygen aftertaste is semi-sweet…. like fresh daffodils….
Not oxygen - morphine, rather, that the EMT’s in that fever dream inside the ambulance administered to her pathetic bloody body to help ease her mind before she died. An act of kindness, so she thought, repressing the fact it was responder protocol and nothing more. It’s impossible to stay awake. Her head rocks side to side - unable to control muscles function as her body jostles on the gurney. Hot scarlet pools bleed beneath the woman’s dominant shoulder, staining the stark white medical cloth bright red, dripping down the sidebars to splatter rhythmically on the tiles below. Earl grey eyes barely able to stay open, dark eyelashes fluttering open and shut like the paper-thin wings of a monarch. Inactive consciousness begins to slip away as more vermillion spreads out from the underside of her limp frame.
“Can you hear me?”
The words have been warped by the trauma shock freezing her body. The sound traveled in one ear, out the other, the meaning not discarded through the tone slips out of her mental grasp. She can’t answer.
“Pulse 53 and dropping!”
That same voice from before shouts. She’s not ready for any of this. Her breaths grew shallow - the weight of the world settled deep into her chest, homing itself between the slats of her ribs, pushing her organs side to nestle deep into the dark cavern never meant to see the light of day. Her abdominals falter, stutter in pattern, as their once rhythmic pace begins its process of grinding to a definitive halt. The pounding of her heart fades with vigor - the vital muscle now weakening as all its efforts drain through a three-inch exit wound torn through the meat of her shoulder. An abrasive forefinger digs into the flesh of her face, the opposing one pulling upward on her brow line to expose her sore eyeball. Silvery streaks fly to and fro in the bustling atmosphere, the light lingering with a loud, agonizing tingle rocketing straight through her vibrating skull. Maya jerks her head to break the unwelcome contact, an action that takes every ounce of energy she has left. A blonde nurse leans over the modified mobile stretcher as it rushes down the bleached white corridor. She can’t register much of her features except for her pretty hair that matches the color of a sunflower’s petals.
She clamps her eyes shut.
“Pupils constricted, there’s no sign of retinal bleeding!”
She can hear everything - the arrhythmic squeaking of the metallic gurney wheels, the clamorous footfalls of each trauma nurse that follow her down the corridor, the failing alerts of the portable EKG. She doesn’t want to hear the world. She never has. She wants to close her eyes, to have her head loll to the side, eyelashes fluttering as the consciousness begins to slip from her mind.
“Victim is Maya Galliard, twenty-one, five nine, AB negative. Single GSW to the right shoulder, exit wound is present.”
“I need a rapid infuser!”
Their words merge with one another, statements overlapping, melding into each other to create some form of garbled communication. She doesn't care. Not anymore at least. “We gave her five units of morphine, the oximeter in the cab crashed, we have more calls, we need to leave.” --“We’ve got her from here - go.” --“Gauge her temperature now - anything above 100 and she’s going to outpatient!” --"She’s conscious but unresponsive!" Another voice booms into her opposite ear. "We need to check for signs of infection!" Her body begins to vibrate. Each strand of muscle, bundle of fibers, everywhere from her fingertips to her toes ignites with a force that locks up every bit of flesh inside her dying body. Maya feels like she's bound to throw up or pass out - possibly even die. Maybe all three all at once. Nothing is certain anymore besides the festering agony swarming within her chest. If this was how she died, then so be it. She prays to pass out again to be momentarily free of pain - though miraculous.
Silvery stars dance behind her eyelids, then across the span of her vision when her eyes snap open, reacting to her chest forcing out the air to occupy her lungs. Soon, the voices begin to fade. Bare feet kick against the rough sheet, bloodied fingers cramp up, her midsection arches upward involuntarily. A hazy figure towers above her, their chartreuse scrubs painted with blood splatter near the apex of their waist. It's all Maya's. Their hand yanks the oxygen mask down from her face, hastily snapping a separate elastic set that bites harshly into her cheeks. She jerks again, involuntarily, the cord attached to the mask ghosting over her sore wound.
“She’s seizing, I need her sedated!”
She can feel the blood gushing out of her, every weakened pump of her heart only further expelling the vital fluids as time ticks on. She tastes foul pools of iron welling in the back of her throat. Unable to control herself, Maya hacks, propelling scarlet splatters to spray against the inside of the transparent muzzle - countless speckles and dots rolling down the curvature of the apparatus, dripping to fall back against the skin below. “Administering ten units of nitrous oxide now!” Her nose is flooded with a scent that reminds her of old pennies and sour vinegar. “I’ve got the RI, EMT confirmed AB Negative.” A freezing object pierces the gentle skin covering the apex of her elbow - pushing deep below her skin. Without further warning, she feels a cool serum rush beneath her beige tones, the sensation immediately guiding her body into it’s natural shutdown sequence. Her vision further blurs. The ring in her ears drowns out the commotion of those above her. She struggles to keep her eyes open; so she fights it no longer. Cool metallic blades kiss the skin below her blood soaked shirt, their unwelcoming and frigid touch ghosting her torso and chest as the rest of her shirt is cut away from her settling body. Aside from what they cut off in the ambulance, Maya’s entire upper body was exposed under blaring operating room dish lights.
The blast through her shoulder still holds its steady flow - her head lolls to the side when the gas takes full effect. It was not death himself Maya feared. Her mind slips into the abyss of the unknown. Maya never thought today would be the day she lost her life. She woke up without any time for coffee, stubbed her toe leaving her apartment, her car was desperate for gas, she forgot to call her mom, she needed plant food from the store. The image of her grandfather sears into her mind - the hero whom she loved so dearly, who she missed more than anything in the world. Her heart threatens to stop. Her body cannot pace itself to meet its own demands. And at the age of twenty one, Maya Galliard faces death. Agony rips through the tender flesh of her insides, her organs unable to keep the vital pace her body requires to fully function. The image of her grandfather comforts her, for as she believes, he is visiting her in her final moments of life. Though his whiskey aged voice melds together with that of the nurse above her, whose hands have now plastered themselves to the bleeding hole blown through her shoulder. To the left side where her profile squishes against the mat, a trauma nurse with bright eyes kneels down. Maya’s eyes fight to stay open - she fears if she closes them, it will be the last act she’ll ever do. She’s incredibly weak, from injury and gas alike. The concept Maya can do nothing to prevent her end is what mortifies her. The face of her grandfather merges with the woman’s; their words match cadence, their voices mixing in a foggy haze. She can’t fight anymore. And when those grey eyes flutter closed, the entire world vanishes, as though it were never there at all.
--
Raccoon City Federal Credit Union
September 24, 1998
Two Hours Prior
God this fucking sucks!
Dual index and middle dig into either temple, finger pads pressing into the smooth skin in a half-baked attempt to alleviate an absolute foul, brain blasting, sudden onset migraine. Outside the horizontal windows near the apex of the fifteen-foot ceilings, rain drops plaster their malleable bodies to the insulated glass, sliding about against the smooth surface. The rhythmic pat..pat..pat.. of the rainfall was only predicted to become far heavier accompanied by severe winds according to Rachel Busey from Channel Seven weather. Maya always had a soft spot for rainstorms; the fresh smell of water against pavement, drenched greenery rustling heavily in the frigid winds, lighting a candle in your living space while the world outside storms and rocks with fury - there wasn't anything like it. Yet all the overly exhausted woman prayed for now was a hot shower and a twenty hour nap. As much as she wanted a roaring cascade to lull her to sleep, she needed to get back to work. So here's holding onto hope that the autumnal storm would roll in after six - just about four more hours until closing, and about another three until the unfavorable scramble was predicted to slam Raccoon City.
But, the weather wasn't the only vile thing to brew within the metropolis alleyways.
"Crime rates in the last few days have been higher than ever before in Raccoon City, and that number is still expected to climb." Maya's eyes flick over to the desktop television on the side counter. A blonde reporter in a deep lilac blazer reports on the stratosphere-scraping level crime that's plagued Maya's new home for the past month. She stares into the fuzzy abyss created by the garbled static of the shit ass boxy TV. "Police Chief Brian Irons has spoken on the subject at the latest press conference." The scene cuts to a press room setting with the famous Chief of Police in the center of a podium surrounded by microphones. Camera captures flashing streaks across the screen, ceaseless chatter from countless reporters floods the low quality soundbar.
"Please," the Chief raises a hand, gesturing for a moment of silence. "please." He repeats. Maya blinks - the man sounds exhausted, like he's been fighting off the weight of the world. Or maybe he just stayed up too late. Like she did... "I cannot begin to express how overwhelmed our city's first responders are in their heroic attempts to control the chaos rampaging through our beloved home." Her mind wipes itself a blank slate as she stares at the report. "Our officers, firefighters, medics and hospitals are all suffering from this ruinous calamity affecting Raccoon City - we have had far too many first line casualties as a result." The man takes a deep breath." And it is at this time that I have made the executive decision to involve the National Guard as strictly as a precaution." Maya sits up, the hand supporting her cheek falling to rest on the table below. They’re bringing in the troops? The reporters in the background erupt with a tidal wave of questions, shouting over one another in desperate attempts to have their inquiries replied to. The Chief looks down once again, raising his hand in silent request to the floor. Decorated officers stand guard on either side of Irons, their emotionless faces reading blank. Maya senses a brave facade - she believes they're just as scared as everyone else. She slowly rises up as the gathered information settles unwelcomed in her gut. "Everyone, please, try to understand this is only a precaution until we can uncover these unidentified threats that terrorize our way of life." The Chief does what he can to settle the audience - whom, of which - are clamorous with demur. When the Police Chief's words become drowned out by the reporters, the scene cuts back to the news anchor behind a sleek glass desk.
"The Mayor has declared Raccoon City in stage one of a state of emergency in regards to Police Chief Irons's corroboration. Spencer Memorial hospital has become overwhelmed with civilians requiring emergency medical care, thus forcing the Police Station to act as a secondary care unit. It is strongly advised if you are seeking help, asylum or medically related, you are encouraged to reach out to the phone number posted below, and we will connect you to the station's call center in order to receive admissive care." The stark white numbers burn against a navy background - a combination that strains Maya's eyes when her line of sight follows the sequence. “Basic medical care, food rations, water and shelter will be provided at the RPD station, and mandatory health screenings upon entry are required. Umbrella Research Corporation advises that if you are experiencing a high-grade fever, confusion, coughing, or any of the other symptoms listed below you go to the emergency room immediately for medical attention.” Maya's heart thrums in her chest - her eyes glaze over the listed symptoms. Uncontrollable salivation…sudden onset dyskinesia…partial muscle paralysis…reddening of the eyes…difficulty/raspy breathing…profuse vomiting…unusually pale skin. What the fuck is going on? All this for the flu?
Is this still the flu?
Brow furrowing with confusion and building consertation, she leans forward, abruptly pressing the power button on the scratchy box. Her hands are uneasy, her breath has been caught in her throat. A state of emergency? Shivers jerk the struts of Maya's spine. The rumbling thunder rings out from behind the armored walls of the bank, reminding her of the brewing storm. Deep within her chest, that fatalistic feeling of dread swarms her nerves. I need to get back to work.
---
Twenty…fourty....sixty....eighty...one…
Frigid fingertips clack against a blocky keyboard, steel observant rims reflecting with a harsh light emulating from the monitor. Column after column is filled with formatted sequences of numbers, her brain rotating through equation after equation until the digits slot themselves into their respective cells. Her ultimate focus is plastered to the screen, racking up the statistical rate for the database. Who the hell messed with the standardized percentiles? She shakes her head at the numbers that must have been entered in by an entry-level teller. Maya releases a weighted sigh as she works to correct the numerical errors. Pressure builds against her shoulders, the obligations beginning to press further and further into her muscular tissue. Not only was she suffering through an exhausting migraine, but the accounting foreman, Matthew, had politely requested Maya adjust the logs in the computers before taking her leave for the day. But of course, she can’t afford to take a day off. Anxiety gnawed through the walls of her gut - she couldn't get the news clip from earlier out of her head.
The grim words of a seemingly emotionless reporter ran on loop in her empty head, the concept of military occupation in the streets striking a nauseating pool of bile in her throat. Has no one else heard of what's going on? The nonchalant atmosphere of the bank radiated the idea that either no one noticed, or no one cared; whichever it was, it made Maya incredibly apprehensive about her drive home. Maya glances into the interior of the lobby. Apparently, none of their union members seemed to worry about the current state of society much. Is it possible she's overthinking everything? After all, it was just a high crime rate that was running rampant. What more can an average person do? She leans back in her chair, taking another gander past the teller stations. Iron toned irises lock onto someone who looks to be a little left of center.
The accountant blinks before assessing him.
The guy's done nothing wrong, but Maya feels a gravitational pull toward him - and it's not the good kind of pull. He seems off, not entirely put together. His aura is bursting at the seams with darkness, dread and a sensation she can’t exactly put a name to. He's fair skinned, pale - very pale. Almost translucent looking with dark clothes clinging to his sickly looking figure. He couldn't have been taller than five-nine, not to mention the man looked ninety pounds dripping wet. So why is he just idling in the corner of the lobby? Is he here to actually do business? Maya's cold gaze lingers on the man. The look in his eyes isn't right, it isn't...normal. Her heart thrums deep inside her chest, a frozen stone of dread rolling about in the pits of her belly. The stranger has a good look around the layout of the lobby, his glossy eyes tracing over the sloped counter. He seems to have methodical ways of observation, examining every nook and cranny as he could possibly lay eyes on. She tracks his unbalanced steps, brow line slotting over dark eyes as she watches him stare up at the second floor walkway. Then, his eyes meet hers.
She freezes, but forces her eyes to tear away from the man, hands ghosting above the keys below her fingertips. Did he notice her staring at him the entire time? Was he aware she had been logging his every move since she first saw him stand adjacent to the glass doors? She's always had the innate feeling of when something is wrong. She senses the overwhelming feeling of insanity plaguing her. Maya needs to take a moment to chill the fuck out before she loses her mind. Her entire life, she has overthought every single thing, and now is no different. Part of her wants to storm into her boss's office and tell him she's leaving for the day without a second thought.
She whirls around to the counter behind the connected desks, fingers dancing atop a banker box in search of a particular file. If she gets the daily report from today's percentage projections, she can slip into the filing room to have a breather. Quitting through the workday isn't a viable option - Maya had to make rent, have enough to put gas in her car and pay her phone bill. She already took two sick days this month, and she can't afford to dip into savings. She glances at the clock to her left. It's a quarter past three - she just needs to buckle down and power through: the curse of the working class. Her eyes read the tab on the manilla folder:
Accounting files - 09/24/98. Good. Now all she needs to do is finish this set and-
Several baritone bangs strike through her chest, the sheer force of them rocketing in the shells of her ears, the hollow points of her torso. Powerful enough to vibrate her very core. The sharp pains pierce her ears, disrupting the rhythm of her heart. The file falls from her hands before her eyelid spasm. Her chest flushes with an acidic freeze, bringing her doe-like eyes to widen. It sounded like fireworks, blasting sharp rings through her chest before blowing out her eardrums. She reacts by jerking violently and covering her ears.
Gunfire.
The distressed screams of others rattle her senses - both employee and client alike - echo in the shell of her burning ears. Scarlet splatter stains the glass wall of an advisory office, a woman slumped at its base with crimson staining her beige coat. Her breath trembles as it seeps loosely from her lips. Maya’s heart abruptly ends it’s arrhythmic cadence. She’s centered in on the woman at the base of the floor, so much so that when a series of shots ring out, it becomes the only thing that can force her back into reality. This isn’t happening… The people fall quiet as result from the man’s cruel bark - many kneel on the floor with arms raised. Maya can’t bring herself to move.
“I’m only gonna…say this once…”
His voice holds a sickeningly odd tone. The man sounds like he hasn’t had a drop of water in days, and a disgusting rasp wrings his words from the back of his throat. His eyes are wide - wider than average, almost like he’s got some kind of ocular abnormality. It is only the woman's sobs of pain that fill the thick air. Everything inside her screams to go help the lady, but if she makes any moves to do so, she'll end up just like her. Maya’s eyes run across the tellers that have their hands up in the air, the order somehow passing overhead. No one’s able to trigger the silent alarm like this… She looks to the bleeding woman who’s clutching her midsection, crying in agony.
“This world will never go back…never go back to what it once was.” Her eyes shift to her right side where a fire alarm is posted three feet away. She pulls that trigger down, and the sprinkler systems activate, and flood lights turn on. She looks back to the man - he's not looking at her. Slowly, she scoots to the right, every little step uneasy as nerves weigh in on her decision. An outside source could have already heard the shots and called the police... But Maya needs to do more. The fire alarm will roll down fire doors over the reserves to protect them from, well... a fire, but in this case, whoever the hell this cracked out dude is. But she can’t move anymore… How does she force her frozen muscles to break their hesitation?! No, Maya...stay still.
"It's pretty clear I'm here for one thing." Maya's eyes stay locked on the man, steps holding their steady pace. Halfway there. "I've gotten a late start thanks to the good Samaritan, but I've still got time." But everything comes to a screeching halt when the man's attention is diverted to Maya.
"You."
Her heart ceases to beat, blood roaring through her ears, knuckles white and muscles burning.
"I suggest you –," he waves the gun. "stop." Maya's eyes dilate. Her gaze is fixated to the barrel of his gun, the depths of its ominous interior holding a formidable hole of infinite darkness. She isn't a hero, she'll never be one and she'll never try to be. But she looks at the woman bleeding out onto the floor, shot twice mercilessly for seemingly no reason at all than the fact the man could do what he wanted. After all, the world went to shit.
"Hands up.” Maya's hand rested on the wall about ten inches from the red device. She had to pull this alarm. She had to do something. "I said put your hands up." His voice rings out clear, and it’s evident Maya has to obey. For now.
"Now!"
Maya's hands rise in unison, fingertips reaching both temples. He holds her gaze - he could shoot her if he wanted to, it’d be an easy task. But he doesn’t. Though she’s not exactly versed in the psychological tendencies of the criminally crazed, Maya can tell he’s not here to take lives but rather money. Though, he won’t hesitate to shoot if we don’t follow his exact orders. Her biceps quiver. His attention diverts from Maya. Whether or not he recognized her intentions, the man decided to let his eyes stray from the sight of her. And that was probably a sign from God himself. "I'll start with you." The man waves the piece at a blonde teller Maya recognizes as Lena. She's never really spoken to her before, but she's familiar with her name and occupation. But her concentration doesn’t last long on Lena, who is in stable condition. She looks back to the blonde girl down on the floor. The woman's eyes meet Maya's, her gaze pleading through a bout of painful suffering. Emerald eyes glossy with tears and draining life alike, her cries growing weaker and weaker as she only loses more blood. The inevitable cannot be prolonged…but this isn’t the inevitable. Maya’s fingers flex, their prolonged eye contact desperate for a break in pattern. She sobs, mouthing a plea.
“Help….”
Maya’s face darkens, heavy eyes fixating on the man who's still dealing with the first teller at the end of the counter. She’s not a hero. She never will be. And at this moment, she’s not trying to save the day. If there’s any objective in her current life, it’s to do the right thing. Countless hours of therapy and counseling to regard her withdrawal from present reality, days and days spent trying to mend her mind, heart and soul - there’s only one thing to do: the right thing. And she took one long look into the eyes of the woman that lay, bleeding out on the floor, life flashing before her eyes, feeling one thing flood her chest. Her fingertips trace the handle. It’s almost as if the sensation of the device has become obsolete, it doesn’t matter. She knows this will get her killed. And somehow, it doesn’t matter. Her fingers are throbbing, she can't keep herself still. This is all happening too fast. Pull it.
Her hand slams against the device's trigger, pulling the locking mechanism loose from the slot.
The alarm screams out across the lobby, splitting the air with a high pitched wail resembling a tornado siren. Multiple emergency lights across the floor activate as weighted steel flood doors roll across the entrance to the vault. The assailant whips his head in Maya’s direction, her hand still glued to the fire alarm. Backup lights power on, water begins to flood from the dispensers. Her chest rises and falls dramatically, her eyes are narrowed and the familiar expression of rage colors her beige features. Unfriendly fluorescents illuminate her face, reserve system water showering down to dampen her mocha locks. Ominous shadows are cast in the curves of her eyes, the dip above her lips, the lining of her cheekbones. Soaked strands plaster against the bridge of her nose, drop below to her turtleneck. Her iron toned eyes tainted with fury, with dignity, with resolution. The man screams, raising the barrel of his gun to align with her chest. It's the apex of darkness burning a hole straight through her heart. Maya’s expression falters, her eyes dilating.
And although she acted on the principle of her soul - of her entire life where she has conditioned herself to do the right thing, she regrets it.
A single shot cuts through the alarm. The force propels Maya’s head to collide against the wall, air sucked right from her lungs. Her shoulder buzzed, muscles constricted and twisted beneath her skin, their delicate, fleshy fibers splitting open at the apex of her joint, popping their cortical bindings to tear from invasion of lead antimony. Hot liquid soaks the thick fabric of her sweater, heat blooming across her front before she feels the weight of the world itself slam into her organs. Sensation drains from the fingers that activated the fire alarm, muscles shake uncontrollably as tears leak from her eyes. Behind her slipping figure, thick streaks of red scrape in a downward slide against the pale wall. Gravity weighs on her stunned body, pulling the accountant to the floor mercilessly. A single hole is blown through the bloodied plaster. Just when it couldn’t get any worse, it does. Maya chokes, a scream ripping through her throat as her left hand slaps over her right shoulder, tears gushing down her cheeks. She can’t control her breathing - erratic eye movement and heart rate spike, her labored breaths edging her closer and closer to the verge of losing total consciousness.
Maya kicks her feet and sobs in agony, pools of crimson traces hastily seeping across the carpet, staining the slacks of her neighboring teller and supervisor alike. The pressure begins to build - toppling, like countless bricks tumbled over her shaking body, each one scratching hot sears into her freckled skin. The weight against her lungs is unbearable, as if someone was squeezing both the air and life from her vitalities. Blood splatter paints the whitewashed wall that encompasses the curved teller stations, crimson blotches reaching so far they stain the apex of the ceiling. Water mingles with hemoglobin. Maya's chest caves, her turtleneck is drenched with the thick, hot liquid. Her screams are cut with wet chokes, silvery saliva tainted with reddish tones coat her lips. Her body falls into shock. Her advisor falls to his knees, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other trembling with fear. Almost as if he’s afraid to touch her, like she’s doused in gasoline and not blood.
“Ma——ya.” Matthew’s voice quakes as he forces the words out. The fire alert blares out through the lobby of the bank; people begin to panic more than they did before. Maya suddenly loses the ability to control her movements, and she lies, seizing, in the hold of Matthew and Regina, blood rising up through her mouth. “Maya!” Regina cries, frantically trying to wipe the blood from her lips and keep it clear so she can breathe as much as she can. “Keep breathing Maya, do you hear me?!” She sputters, scarlet splattering across the light hands of her coworkers. She can’t, almost, maybe. But the roaring alarm atop the extinguishing fluids peppering her contorted face, she’s unable to focus. Water flows. As does the blood. Both liquids seem to be endless, and the pain only spreads further and deeper throughout her body. She can’t do it. She didn’t think this would be how she died. "Put pressure on it!" A violent wail pierces the spray from the sprinkler reserve system when Regina plants both palms onto her co-worker's wound, the other woman whimpering at her noises and the sight of more hazardous liquid expelling from the point of contact. Maya can’t even tell where she’s been hit, there’s so much at loss. But she has never been more relieved at the sound of wailing sirens. She tried her best to keep her eyes open for as long as she could, but it was an impossible feat.
“It’s — alright….you’re okay.” Matthew’s words are meant to provide comfort, but instead they only stoke the fear swallowing her heart. Maya didn’t save anyone, in fact, all she did was alert authorities to arrive sooner than if they responded to reported gunfire. But he was trying to comfort Maya in what he believed were her last moments, so that she could die knowing she saved the others tangled in this incident. Part of her thanked him, part of her resented him. But in the middle of feeling her soul slip away from her body, she couldn’t keep track of anything even if she tried. Maya coughs from the scarlet pooling in her throat - her mouth sputtering to form sounds that scrape at the back of her mouth. Though she pushes, no sound follows the movements. Ten thousand pounds pile on her chest, her diaphragm constricts so far in itself she feels that her internals could burst at any time. If this was the road to her demise, then she was terrified of the journey toward it. Her eyes, blearily, fixate on the vaulted ceilings, following the fresh crimson splatter as it reaches great heights.
The crack in the wall where the force of the shot broke through her body and the structure behind - an indent to forever serve as a grim reminder of September 24th. The water continues to dispense from the ceiling reserve - the flashing red lights streak across the features of her face. She’s scared. She wants her mom. She wants the EMT’s to save her life. She wants to drink coffee again. But she fears she is now a lost cause. All Maya could think about was Death standing at her feet, peering down upon her in curiosity. Her vision splits in half, eyelids growing heavy. She can hear her heart slow in her ribcage and it’s at this moment she is relieved. Relieved from the agony as her head falls to the side, forcing her mind to enter a state of darkness - of which, it’s limits are infinite. And as much as she wants to be free of the trauma inflicting her body - she doesn’t want this to be her last breath. Her bloodied left hand gravitates to Regina’s own, scarlet streaks painting the pale skin of her coworker with a haunting image that does nothing if provoke a nightmarish reality. It’s a grim image the other woman will remember for as long as she breathes. In this state of the world, it may not be for long. She loses temporary consciousness before the sound of sirens can reach her ears, dying heartbeat echoes in her mind.
--
Her chest is tight when it expands with air.
The steady ticking of the clock fills the dead silence of the room. Hazy sight greets an ambient light hue stemming from the head of her cot - her double vision blurring the scenery of a hospital room. The minimal lighting exposes plaster board ceiling panels above her face, coordinated metallic beams cris crossing with one another to hold the boards in place. One beam splits into two, twisting and swirling with unrealistic movement that can only be backed by chemical exhaustion. Maya’s eyes flutter shut with the desire to remain closed. Maybe five more minutes. Her nervous system screams to force her dreary eyes wide - it leads to no avail. Head heavy with drowsiness lulls to the side before her eyes can open once more to take in sights out of focus. She fights deep within her mind, her consciousness battling her physical form to rise up from this frozen state and display signs of life. Maya’s thought process is fractured - every single monologue of her consciousness trailing off to drop below into a dark abyss, never again to be revisited or perceived at any point in time. But it hits her.
Somehow, she’s alive.