Shit. I left it in the car.
I stretch my arm over the counter and fumble for the phone until I feel the cordless receiver. I know all the emergency numbers by heart. My mom drilled them into me when I was little. My fingers move frantically over the dials, punching in the number for the private clinic. It’s the closest medical facility. A private ambulance will be faster.
When the operator answers, I say, “There’s been a domestic violence incident. My mom is unconscious, and my husband was shot. There are three casualties. We need an ambulance. Please.”
“Right away, ma’am. Do you have medical aid?”
“I’m fully covered.”
I ramble off the address and hang up. Then I rush to Leon. His tanned skin is pale, and the depths of his ruby-brown eyes aren’t glowing with that light that always seems to come from within. The color is flat, and it makes my hands tremble as I go down on my knees to work on the knots of the cord that ties his hands.
“Leon,” I say with a sob. “You hold on, do you hear me? You do not get to leave me.”
“Hey.”
His quiet tone stills me. Wetness coats my cheeks as I look at him. His head is resting on the back of the chair as if his neck can’t support the weight.
“I want to touch you so badly,” he says with a chuckle, caressing me with his gaze instead. “You did well, darling.”
“No,” I say, the word harsh as I break our eye contact and work on the knots again. “You don’t get to say things like that.” Things that sound like goodbye.
“You’ll be all right,” he says. “You’re stronger than anyone I know.”
“Shut up,” I yell through my tears, sobbing as I don’t make any leeway in untying the cable.
“I’m proud of you, Violet.” His voice is soft. “Always have been.”
“Leon,” I plead, crying harder as I abandon my futile efforts. I need a knife.
“Violet.”
He says my name differently, like he’s never said it before. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to see it, but I can’t deny him when he says, “Look at me.”
I do. I look at him. I look at his handsome face and see my favorite color. “Leon, no.”
“I love you.” His smile is faint but peaceful. “I did from the first moment. Don’t you ever forget that.”
“Fuck.” A sob catches in my throat. Hysteria threatens to take hold of me as I look around for something sharp I can use. I spin on my knees. “I need a knife.”
“No,” he says, the urgency in his voice stopping me.
I turn my face back to him.
“Stay with me,” he says. “Just for a little while longer.”
If he’d stuck his hand into my chest and ripped out my heart, it would’ve hurt less. Desperate, I grab a cushion from the chair next to me and press it on the wound in his side. I want to beg him again not to leave me, but that will be selfish. I don’t want him to feel guilty about something he can’t control.
Sniffing away my tears, I try to give him a brave smile. I want to say I’m sorry, but that’s not true.
“I’m not sorry,” I say, my voice breaking as his eyes shift out of focus.
Perspiration beads on his forehead. “For what?”
I wipe the sweat away tenderly.
In the end, I don’t shed my fear. It doesn’t work like that. Not for me. Instead, I embrace it, letting the immense weight of its beauty settle in vibrant purples in my darkest corners.
Putting my head in his lap, I lay my heart at his feet. “I’m not sorry for loving you.”