The smell of blood filled Remington's nose, throat, chest, being. She could taste metal on her tongue. Red stained her hands and her clothes. Was it in her hair? Was it in her mouth? It was on her arms, and her face, and it was pouring out of her leg.
She dropped the knife with a clatter. She'd lost the gun somewhere, couldn't remember where. A fool's mistake. A beginner's mistake. Something she had done when she was young and stupid. A mockingbird, hidden in the darkness, mimicked the sound.
The pain in her leg was surprisingly faint, but she knew the wound was bad. She was going to bleed out, probably. The warehouse was cold, and the dead eyes staring at her made her feel even colder. She stumbled to her purse, though she wasn't sure why. Her hands trembled as she opened it, the teeth of the zipper like padlocks that she had to undo one at a time. Her hands dug through the bag, yanking out useless detritus that collects over lifetimes. Her phone, car keys, wallet, money, lipstick, a syringe -- damn it, damn it -- and her hands landed on the only thing in there worth looking at again. It was smooth and cool to the touch. Slowly, she pulled out the bottle of perfume. It had been so long ago that Namjoon had given it to her. He had probably forgotten all about it. But to her, it was a relic worth more than any piece of the crucifixion cross or strand of Mary Magdalene's hair that churches could cherish. She held it close to her chest and tried to imagine that somehow his fingerprints, his DNA, were still on the glass, preserved by some divine intervention despite the passage of time.
She winced as she hit the wall, and she let her legs give out from under her.
"Ouch," she said, and looked at her leg. Oh, right. The switchblade was still embedded in her flesh. She grabbed the hilt and yanked the blade out, throwing it onto the ground. The blood went from being a gentle dripping to a raging torrent.
She couldn't tell what she wanted more: for the end to come quickly, or for one more hit of Amnesia to make everything go away until she bled out. If she had some, what would she do there, knowing it was the last time? She should have been more careful tracking how much she had. She should have used the last few drops to create a perfect, fake utopia with the perfect, fake versions of the people she loved.
Voices brought her out of her reverie. They were outside the warehouse, but close by. She'd missed someone. But then another sound joined the voices-- a car coming, fast. The hidden mockingbird let out a shrill call of warning.
"Shit," she muttered. Maybe she wasn't getting the quiet death she had been hoping for. Because of course it couldn't be that easy.
The voices turned to yelling, and something a little like anxiety twisted her throat, and--
The crash sounded like a bomb, and it made Remington jump to her feet, despite the stab wound. More distant yelling now.
"Remy!" an all-too-familiar voice yelled, and for a second, Remington thought maybe she had slipped some Amnesia, because how the hell could he be here?
"Kookie?!" she yelled back, bewildered.
"Yeah, I'm--" But he didn't get to finish whatever he was saying, because there was another foreign, unknown shout, and then a gunshot.
Remington knees cracked as they hit the ground and she screamed, a horrible, strangled noise, the kind that an animal makes when it knows it's about to die. She saw it in awful detail, could picture the blood and the pieces of gore that had once made up a person now turned into some grotesque sight, and he was dead, he was dead, and it was all her fault.
"Remy, where are you?"
Remington blinked, once, twice. Because that was Jeongguk, even though she'd just heard a gunshot.
YOU ARE READING
Amnesia
Fanfiction"I've always been curious about that. When you're on stage in front of thousands of people that adore you, do you ever look at those people and wonder? Wonder about who they are? Do you think about their names, their ages? What their place is in the...
