A Waltz With Wolves (Book II in The Harrison Inc. Series) | ✓

Chapter Fifty-Three: Distractions

**

I don't know how to feel about the sight in front of me.

Alejandro being carried away. That's what I see, sitting on the ground with Sebastian's arms still wrapped around me. I watch Isaac and Claude lift his body up and haul him out of the room. His eyes are closed, hair hanging back to reveal more of the gash on his nose—the gash I created. I just stare, my body in a state of shock with my limbs frozen stiff. They struggle to haul Alejandro's mass through the door, but they succeed, the sounds of their laborious breathing being heard as they travel down the hall. When they're gone, I look around the room at the mess—the ceiling plaster scattered on the floor, the broken lamp, overturned furniture. None of it seems real when the images burn into my brain.

Sebastian begins to remove his hold on me, slowly as if it's a danger to my wellbeing for him to break away.

"I'll be right back," he assures me. His voice is certain and adamant like a promise. He gets up, his hands gradually gliding out of mine before rushing out of the room. I sit silently, still processing. I can hear them talking in the hall; Sebastian's anger is clear through his speech.

"Call Salvador right now," he orders. "Tell him we're bringing Alejandro to him right now."

"Sebastian—"

"Now!" he shouts over Claude's protest. Claude says nothing else, abides by Sebastian's command and travels down the stairs. Isaac says nothing. Perhaps he knows Sebastian won't listen to reason anymore.

Maybe I should close my eyes—seeing the disordered state of the room can't be good for me. But at this point, I feel like my senses and emotions have turned numb; I keep my eyes open, staring blankly at the mess around me, and wonder how this all happened and where it all started.

I can't carry myself out of this state of shock no matter how hard I try to. My pride is telling me to get up, dust myself off, move on from what happened to me so we could focus on the countless other subjects we have to worry about. My pride tells me that I've been too weak and too expendable lately—that I'm usually smarter. Wiser. My pride tells me to get the hell up and gather myself together, but I can't. I can't anymore.

Get up, Leslie. Pull yourself together.

The image of the gun in Alejandro's possession—of his gloved hand over my mouth—freezes me onto the ground, where I lay against the back of the couch and wait in the silence of the aftermath; I can hear Claude's voice downstairs. Muffled. I hear many muffled voices, probably talking about me, most likely talking about Alejandro, all in secret. Intentionally keeping quiet so I can't hear; I must be too "fragile" to them now after what I saw.

You can do it, Leslie. Step up. One leg, then the other.

I follow my conscience's instructions and slowly get up from the floor. My ears funnel an annoying ringing that only worsens when I stand and let the blood circulate throughout my whole body again. My hands shake uncontrollably; my fingers have little splatters of blood—Alejandro's blood. Quickly, I head to the bathroom and wash my hands. I wash them with scalding hot water and with an excessively dripping amount of soap. I scrub my hands, watching the suds gather in the sink bowl, and I continue washing my hands until they're blotchy, swollen and red, similar to my face right now.

After turning the faucet off, I still feel unclean. I've taken the first step of getting up off the floor, but now I'm unsure of what to do next.

Breathe, Leslie. Walk back into the room and out into the hallway. You need to leave.

I inhale for five seconds, hold for five, exhale for five. Then I carry my steps out of the bathroom; my legs feel tied down by weights. My mind coaches myself to ignore the scene of Alejandro and I's struggle ahead of me as I walk out into the hall.