Hannah couldn't help but let her mind wander as she waited for the bus at the bus stop that dark night. Maybe she really was getting in way over her head and it was a bad idea to let this girl come into her life. As her mind flickered back to the daydream she had as she stood in that loud police station just 20 hours before, her hand slowly rose from her side and found her soft neck. She rubbed it slightly in the spot where the gash was made, making sure the skin was still intact. Maybe it was the paranoia, or maybe it was the tiredness, but she could have sworn she could still feel the glass shard as she probed around the spot. And then, as if on cue, the blood that poured out from her veins slowly started to fill up her throat once more, and her heart started beating faster as the blood rose higher, and higher, until she could taste it in her mouth. The drowning sensation had come back, and just like that, she found herself laying in her own blood pool once again.

Her clothes were absolutely drenched with that horrid, thick, dark substance that came out from inside her just moments before. But something was off. Her laboratory equipment was gone, and the place looked like it was entirely cleaned out. At this point, it was just an empty concrete room with only the metal beams above to provide any and all luminescence to the place.

How am I not dead yet, she thought. Surely losing that much of your blood would kill you in a matter of seconds. But then, an even more frightening thought came to mind.

Where was Zara?

Hannah's grip around her neck did not change as she slowly rolled herself around to view what was behind, expecting to see Zara standing there with a weapon of some sort, ready to put Hannah out of her misery, or make what time she had left even worse. But in reality, she was nowhere to be found. Zara was gone. Whether that was a good thing, or a horrible thing, she could not decide.

Hannah rolled herself back to her previous position. She couldn't just stay there and allow herself to die, she had to get help. Walking would be utterly impossible at this point, as she was gravely wounded and in critical condition, so her only option was to slide herself across the floor. To do this, she laid flat on her back; her hand still gripped tightly at her neck so as to hold on to whatever amount of blood still residing in her body. She used her other hand to aid her feet, which she would then use to push herself. From there, if she could make it, she would reach the stairwell, where a shiny, black phone was attached to the wall. That was her endgame. All she had to do was get to that phone and hold on, for her very life, which was fleeing from her every second, depended on it.

So she, using up every drop of her courage, did just that. She began scooting on her back slowly, her legs trembling a bit from trying to use the strength she simply did not have. Hannah was weak, but once she felt herself move a couple inches, she knew she had to press on.

But then came the numbness.

It started at her toes and eventually made its way up her calves, and then to her thighs. She stopped to get a breath and that is when she noticed her fingertips; they were becoming stiff and they were absolutely drained of color. Her nails were a deep purple, and her heart, as she noticed, started beating much, much slower, and pulses became greatly spread apart with every passing moment. But she was going to get help, she had to get help. This wasn't how she was going to die. So once more, she pressed forward. For two whole minutes, she would do the same routine: she worked her legs like steel cranks, moving them up to an upsidedown "V," then straightening them out, and using that to propel her body forward. What seemed like an endless cycle eventually came to a crashing halt as she felt her legs lock up. But that didn't matter; she had to have been close enough to the telephone by now. Maybe she could turn on her belly and use her spare arm to pull her closer. And she did just that. Her body slowly rolled, leaving her back position and gaining the new one. And when she did this, she weakly shifted her head upward to see where the phone was in proximity to her. And she felt her stomach drop.

She hadn't moved at all. During that entire time, she didn't notice that her feet never truly caught traction with the floor; the moving she felt was simply her feet sliding in the blood. She was still stuck in the pool.

At this time, the headache kicked in. Her sight became foggy and she started to experience double vision. Her body became glued to the floor, and the stairwell began to get further and further away. She was never going to reach that phone. She was never going to get help. Hannah rolled onto her back once more and just laid there.

What was this room for again? She thought. Where am I?

She could no longer remember.

And then, with nearly perfect timing, there was a long creeeeeeeeeeeaaaak that came from the stairwell. The door at the top had opened, revealing a blindingly bright beam of light, and out from this light, a tall silhouette of a man fervently came rushing down the stairs, nearly losing his footing several times. Once he made his way to the bottom, he came running toward her.

Hannah couldn't make out his face, but she heard his voice. It was unclear what he was yelling, for he sounded like he was underwater, but it sounded like he was saying a specific word. And he was saying this word over, and over, and over.

He went straight into the puddle of blood, seemingly not even caring about his own clothes, and fell to his knees beside Hannah, grabbing her by the face. He kept yelling, leaving Hannah to wonder how his throat wasn't becoming sore. She wanted to tell him to be quiet, to grab his hand reassuringly and tell him she would help him later because she was busy at the moment. She noticed he had tears in his eyes that kept dripping and falling on her face, just adding onto her confusion.

"I have to tell this young man to be quiet. He's making my ears ring," she dreamily thought to herself. But when she tried to speak, nothing came out. There was a sense of calmness that overtook her body; it occupied the areas where she could no longer feel, and those that were barely hanging on. The room was suddenly so cold now.

Something wasn't right. In movies, when you're about to pass, aren't you supposed to see a light of some sort, and feel yourself going to it? Why wasn't that happening to her, she questioned. Why was everything getting darker? Why did everything in her vision start melting away until there was no color? Why was she starting to sink through the floor? Why did she feel like someone was pulling her down?

"Hannah!" Damion frantically yelled for the 40th time. Hannah was laying in a fetal position next to the bus stop pole with her hands tightly coiled around her neck.

"HANNAH!!" He screamed again as he pried her hands off her neck. Her bloodshot eyes sprung open as her lungs filled with air, prompting a heavy inhale on her part, which then followed with some coughing. Damion grabbed her by the elbows and lifted her off the ground as he hurriedly scanned her neck area to check for any wounds. Why else would she be holding her neck like that if that wasn't the case? The only thing he found were red grip marks. Good god, he thought, had it not been for me driving through that specific street at that specific time, she might have asphyxiated herself, and I would have never known.

Damion let out a sigh of relief and gladly let the desperation melt off his face. As her coughing subsided, he set her back on her feet, keeping her close to his torso in case something else happened. He wrapped his arms tightly around Hannah's body and held her close as he felt her own arms slowly wrap around his.

Damion set his chin on her head as he felt her begin to cry. "Sshh.. it's okay, darling.. it's okay." He told Hannah, trying to reassure not only her, but himself as well.

"I've got you. And I won't let anything hurt you."