Michelle Maddox - Countdown

But suddenly I did care about something. The creaking sound of somebody moving around in the hallway. I knew that it wasn't either of my parents - I just sensed that it wasn't. It wasn't my older sister returning from a late date and sneaking back in the house so she wouldn't get in trouble for breaking the new citywide curfew of eleven o'clock. She'd gotten back from the movie theater hours earlier.

It was somebody else.

Somebody bad.

For a moment I thought it might just be my imagination, my overwrought, overworked brain that always came up with the worst-case scenario. My mom said I should be a writer, since I always made up such crazy, overdramatic stories. Made mountains out of molehills, she 'd say. But even before I had my flex - or at least, before I'd learned to use it -/ had this sense. A sense of impending doom. The ability to tell if something wasn't right - that something felt off.

And that was how I felt when I lay in my bed that night with the sheets pulled up to my nose, listening to the footsteps outside my door.

Something was off'. Horribly off.

And then I heard my father move into the hallway to investigate the noises. I listened to shouting as he must have confronted the intruder.

And then I heard the gunshots - two gunshots - and the thump as my father's body hit the floor.

Then I heard the screams as my mother… and then my sister - oh, God, both of them - were confronted by the intruder. More shots rang out. My whole body shook as I fell off the side of my bed and crawled underneath, tears streaming down my cheeks. My whole world narrowed in on that moment. Those three minutes that felt like three years.

When all was silent, when my family was dead, I heard my door rattle as the murderer tried to get into my room. My door was locked, but he would have no problem busting it open.

I'm going to die, was all I could think. And I was afraid. So afraid.

But suddenly there was the sound of police sirens, and the intruder fled without another sound, without a word, into the night, where he was never caught.

I never appreciated my family until they were gone forever. I hadn't even said good night to them.

And ever since that night, the inky darkness just reminded me of how close to death I had come. How powerless I was.

How it felt like hands clutching at my neck, holding me down, forcing me to relive my family's murder when I didn't do anything except hide.

I woke slowly but saw only blackness. The pain in my leg immediately alerted me to the fact that I wasn't sleeping. Or dead.

At least, not yet.

"No," I murmured, feeling those familiar tears of panic prick at my eyes as I felt the darkness close in on me. "No … please. Not again."

"Kira," a voice said, familiar and deep. "It's okay. You're going to be okay. Open your eyes."

I felt a warm hand on my cheek, wiping away my tears. Soft lips brushed my forehead, and fingers stroked the hair back from my face.

"It's okay," the voice murmured again. "I'm with you."

My eyes shot open. I thought they'd been open before, but I must have been only half-awake. Half dreaming. I squinted as the soft light of wherever the hell I was became less blurry.

The first thing that came fully into focus was Rogan. He was sitting on the edge of the bed I was lying in. He looked like hell, still dirty and bloody and a total mess, but the sight of him made me feel happy, chasing away my nightmares.

He frowned. "What's that?"

"Wh-what's what?" I managed. My voice sounded croaky.

'That thing on your face."

I tried to reach up. "What is it?"

"I think it's … yes, it's definitely a smile."

I let out a long breath and rolled my eyes. "Obviously a total mistake. There's no reason for me to be smiling right now. Is my leg still attached?"

He glanced down the length of my body and then looked back up at me with a half smile on his own face.

"For now." The smile faded. "You were having a bad dream."

"I can't imagine why. We've been having so much fun." I tried to look around, but didn't see anything other than a bland room with a small window that only looked out to another building. "Where are we now?"

"They brought us to a medical station. I guess you getting shot wasn't in the script."

"There's a script?"

He shrugged. "Who knows?" His gaze met mine, and I noticed for the first time since I woke up how filled with anguish his was. "I was worried about you."

"That makes two of us."

"Don't joke." His voice caught, and he brought his hand back up to stroke my face gently. "You have a knack for working your way into somebody's life real fast, you know that, sweetheart?"

"I thought I asked you not to call me sweetheart?" I was only half-serious as I said it.

He smirked. "Sorry." He didn't move his hand, and I didn't push it away. In fact, I moved my face to nestle closer to him.

"So now what?" I asked.

"So now we're waiting for somebody to check your leg and release us, I guess. They took the bullet out already and patched you up. They gave you some pain meds, which is probably why you were out so long."

"How long was I out?"

"A long time. Almost eighteen hours."

My eyebrows raised. "Eighteen hours?"

He nodded. I raised the white sheets to look down at myself. My clothes were gone and I was now wearing a white, scratchy hospital gown. My right thigh was bandaged.

"So you've … you've been here the whole time? With me?"

"Yeah," he said. "They said I should wait outside, but I refused. I thought they'd beat the shit out of me for giving them attitude, but they didn't. Don't know why. Let me sit in here with you after they were finished patching up your leg."

"For eighteen hours? You've been sitting next to me the whole time?"

"I dozed for a bit myself, but otherwise, yeah." He looked away, and then back to me. "I didn't mind. It's not a bad view, after all."

I felt my cheeks heat. He'd been watching me sleep. That should have totally creeped me out, but instead it made me feel… feel… I don't know. It made me feel secure for some reason. Like he was looking out for me. Making sure nobody hurt me.

Which didn't make a damn bit of sense at all.

Why would a convicted murderer want to be my guardian angel? Why did being around him fill me with anything but the fear I should be feeling with him? Why did I trust him not to hurt me when I was completely helpless? Why did I like the feel of his hand on my face?

Because I didn't believe he was guilty, that was why. He was nothing like the man who'd murdered my family. I'd seen no indication at all that he was cruel or heartless, and he couldn't bring himself to kill Bernard when he thought he was just an innocent civilian.

He didn't do it.

The clear thought was like a revelation that pushed all my fears away.

That would probably be the reason that I found myself placing my hands on either side of his face and drawing him down closer to me. I put a hand on his chest, which was going in and out with his increased breathing, and I could feel his heart pounding hard and fast.

"Kira," he managed, just before our lips brushed together in an achingly soft kiss.

It wasn't much at all. Just the briefest touch before he pulled back. The look on his face held such confusion and awkwardness for such a small thing as a kiss, it almost made me laugh.

And then I realized what I'd just done.

Oh, my God. What was I thinking?

It was the painkillers. Yeah. Had to be the drugs. They were totally tripping me out and making me do things I would never normally do in a million years.