tRuTh - z.m.

16 - Olivia

April 3rd, 2015

"Trish, I can't believe you made it home." I said as we finally for settled into her bed. We'd put on a movie that we knew neither one of us was gonna watch, and made food that we knew both of us were going to inhale.

"Livvy, babe, I didn't think I would." She said somberly, as she dropped the fake French accent. "The things I saw this time when I went back was outrageous. I thought I was going to die,"

"I wish you didn't have to do this anymore." I said. Trish and I had known each other for almost four years and I cared very deeply for her, and since I learned the truth about her I'd come to not only to care but also to worry.

"You didn't tell Zayn, what I do right?" She looked over at me worriedly.

"No, I promised you that day you walked in covered in blood that I'd never tell anyone and I'll keep that promise until I die."

"What if you find yourself in the face death because of my secret? Have you ever thought about that?" Her bright blue eyes were glued to my face, searching for some kind of sign that I was afraid. But I wasn't.

"I used to think about it a lot. But I owe you that much. I was sleeping on the streets when you found me, Trish. I could've died then, but I didn't and that's because you saved me. So if I have to risk something to protect you then I will. I'm loyal Trish, especially to the people I love, and you know that. Doesn't matter how dangerous it gets,"

"I appreciate you so much. If it weren't for you, my job would drive me crazy. Is have no one to vent to, no one to come home to, no one to spend all this blood money on." She shook her head.

"Don't say it like that." I said, feeling a surge of guilt flowing through me.

"It is blood money though."

"You do what you do for your country and it's for the safety of us regular people as well. You're saving lives,"

"No, I'm taking lives." She shook her head. I knew her well and I knew a breakdown was coming. She began breathing hard and before I knew it She was pulling the covers over her head. I knew she'd be in bed for the next couple of days. I knew she'd need me beside her at all times. I knew what was happening.
A person can only take but so many lives before they begin to question their own.

Living with Trish was like living two lives. The life we wanted everyone to believe we lived and the life we actually lived. There was only so much I could tell people about my past because it intertwined with hers and I'd lie before risking her life and risking what we had.

Trish's real name was Monique Broque. She and I really met a couple months after I moved to London. I was homeless and sleeping outside when she met me.

I had gotten a scholarship to a school here, but that only included tuition and the flight over here. But I was running from my mistakes and desperate to escape America, so I came anyway.

I lived out of my suitcase and under bridges for a couple of months, until Trish found me. She was walking home after a local job here in the UK and just so happened to walk up on someone stealing my things as I laid there asleep.

She fought them for it and won of course, leaving them scurrying off to hide somewhere and think about how they'd been beat by such a petite young woman, wearing heels and diamonds.

She asked me what I was doing out there and I told her my whole life story. She brought me home with her and that was it. I began living in her apartment and going to school from there. I never asked questions like what she did and where she got her money from. I knew there was something secretive about it, because we talked about everything but that.

I didn't have to wonder for long though, because after about nine months of living with her, she busted in through my window one night, covered in the blood of someone else and her own as well.

|¤| February 21st, 2013

"Trish!" I screamed as I jumped out of bed. I turned the lights on and quickly began helping her to my bed. She was breathing hard and clutching her arm.

"Help me," she begged. "Help me, I've been shot, twice."

Tears welled in my eyes because I was scared. I didn't know what to do and I didn't want her to die.

"No police," she whimpered. "Please no cops," she said, finally letting go of the fake French accent and allowing her real Russian accent to come through.

"I don't know what to do! I'm scared," I whimpered. "I don't wanna hurt you,"

She groaned loudly as she sat up to look me in the eye. "It's gonna be ok, Olivia. I won't die, but if you don't get the bullets out I will."

I nodded and it was like suddenly I'd remembered everything I ever saw about surgery on TV.

I cleared my desk with one swipe of my hand, sending my laptop crashing to the ground. I scooted it to the middle of the room and turned all the lights on. I quickly helped Trish from my bed to the desk and laid her down.

I rushed to the bathroom to find any and everything I needed. I dug through the drawers and grabbed little scissors, big scissors, tweezers, towels, rubbing alcohol, peroxide, and even bandaids.

I rinsed everything with alcohol and brought it all back to my room.

"Okay, where were you shot?" I asked her.

"My arm," she said with her eyes closed. I was praying she wouldn't fall asleep or pass out, I needed her guidance and I needed her breathing as motivation to keep her breathing. "My leg,"

"Okay," I nodded before starting a wiping frenzy. I cleaned her wounds and cleared the areas as best I could. I started examining her arm. There was only a deep gash going across her outer bicep, no bullet hole, she'd been grazed. "There's no bullet here," I said as I exhaled loudly.

I then moved on to her thigh. There was definitely a hole and defintely a bullet. There was thick, dark blood rushing from the hole and it was rimmed with black dust.

My heart began beating so fast, I felt it in my throat. I picked up the tweezers and began digging. She screamed and I wanted to stop but I knew I was close. There was blood on my hands and arms, underneath my fingernails, splattered all over my t shirt, floor, and bed.

I ignored everything and kept digging for the bullet, I finally got it out and dropped it on the desk beside her thigh. We were both sweating by the time I began sterilizing her wounds. I was about to start wrapping them but she stopped me.

"You must stitch it closed, both of them." She said in a raspy voice. She tried clearing her throat but failed and quickly gave up, closing her eyes again.

I internally panicked, but said nothing aloud, knowing no matter how I felt about it, it had to be done for her survival.

I searched around my room nervously, for a needle and thread. The only thread I could find was bright orange, but it had to do.

I brought it back and she managed to laugh when she saw it. "Sorry, it's all I got," I chuckled as I threaded the needle.

It took me thirty minutes to sow her up on account of my nervousness and shaky hands.

But when it was all over, everything was still. I sat down and began crying quietly into my hands, weeping if you will. I wasn't sure why but all my life after a stressful event ended I'd sit and cry. It was like my brain knew better at the moment, so it held for later.

"Olivia," she called, but I didn't respond. "Olivia!" She repeated.

I looked up, vision blurred from the years in my eyes. "What?"

"I'm alive because of you. There's no need to cry, it's okay now."