Denny looked up at him in shock, unable to believe he’d heard correctly. But as the man reached inside his jacket, his self-preservation kicked in. He leaped up and threw himself across the room into the bedroom, slamming the door shut and throwing the lock, looking for something to use as a weapon. Before he could find anything, the door shuddered and buckled as Denny’s attacker threw himself at it. Seconds later and seemingly unable to feel any pain, the man repeated the action and the door flew open, hanging from its hinges, the frame splintering. He stumbled into the room, off balance, a gun waving in his right hand.
Denny had never seen a gun in real life before, but he recognised the silencer attached to the barrel from countless TV shows.
Acting purely on instinct, he grabbed at it, managing to wrestle it from his grasp, but not able to hang onto it as the man lunged at him. The gun spun away across the floor.
Denny whirled around to go after it when he suddenly felt a sharp pain. He glanced down at his side and saw his white t-shirt staining red. Looking back up, he saw a blood-soaked knife in the man’s hand.
The gun, he thought frantically, the pain from his wounds barely registering, I have to get the gun.
Moving away quickly, adrenaline pumping through his body, he spotted the weapon under the chest of drawers. He heard movement behind him and grabbed for the ceramic lamp on the top of the drawers, swinging round and smashing it into the man’s head as he lunged at him, knife extended. The man grunted and staggered back, clutching at his bleeding head.
Denny dropped to the floor and reached beneath the drawers, desperately feeling for the gun. As the man shook his head and focused on him again, Denny’s hand closed over the cold, hard metal. He grabbed onto it in desperate relief and pulled it out, but the man jumped forward and knocked it from his hand again. Denny scrambled to his feet, backing up against the drawers.
His abdomen exploded in pain.
He looked down as the man withdrew the knife from his stomach, then plunged it back in again. He screamed in agony.
Suddenly overwhelmed by dizziness, he dropped to his knees on the hardwood floor. Tears ran down his face. He couldn’t believe what was happening.
Then he heard laughter and he looked up into crazed eyes. Despair gripped him as he realised the man was utterly insane.
“Please,” he gasped, “I don’t...”
He grunted as the man stepped up to him and plunged the knife into his chest.
As he collapsed onto his side on the cold, hard floor, in more pain than he could ever imagine, he thought desperately of Trish and Jay, how he didn’t want to leave them. And then his eyes fluttered shut and he thought of nothing.
Denny jerked awake, gasping for breath and shaking uncontrollably. He sat bolt upright and darted his eyes frantically around the room. It was dark, moonlight the only illumination to see by. There were no large, knife wielding men. He closed his eyes again and held his hands to his head, trying to calm his racing heart.
The nightmare had been so vivid, so real. And then he realised why. Not just a dream.
A memory.
He looked down at the spot on the floor in front of the chest of drawers. He couldn’t see the pale, scrubbed clean area on the floorboards in the dim light, but he knew it was there. The place where he’d bled out and died.
Now he understood why Oliver had said he might not want to remember his death. He wished he could forget it all again. The panic, the agony, the hopelessness as his life had drained away, it all came flooding back. Pain squeezed his chest and he shut his eyes against the tears. Why him? He’d never hurt anyone. Why did he have to die that way? And then anger began to replace the sadness. He died because, somehow,
Denny had never seen a gun in real life before, but he recognised the silencer attached to the barrel from countless TV shows.
Acting purely on instinct, he grabbed at it, managing to wrestle it from his grasp, but not able to hang onto it as the man lunged at him. The gun spun away across the floor.
Denny whirled around to go after it when he suddenly felt a sharp pain. He glanced down at his side and saw his white t-shirt staining red. Looking back up, he saw a blood-soaked knife in the man’s hand.
The gun, he thought frantically, the pain from his wounds barely registering, I have to get the gun.
Moving away quickly, adrenaline pumping through his body, he spotted the weapon under the chest of drawers. He heard movement behind him and grabbed for the ceramic lamp on the top of the drawers, swinging round and smashing it into the man’s head as he lunged at him, knife extended. The man grunted and staggered back, clutching at his bleeding head.
Denny dropped to the floor and reached beneath the drawers, desperately feeling for the gun. As the man shook his head and focused on him again, Denny’s hand closed over the cold, hard metal. He grabbed onto it in desperate relief and pulled it out, but the man jumped forward and knocked it from his hand again. Denny scrambled to his feet, backing up against the drawers.
His abdomen exploded in pain.
He looked down as the man withdrew the knife from his stomach, then plunged it back in again. He screamed in agony.
Suddenly overwhelmed by dizziness, he dropped to his knees on the hardwood floor. Tears ran down his face. He couldn’t believe what was happening.
Then he heard laughter and he looked up into crazed eyes. Despair gripped him as he realised the man was utterly insane.
“Please,” he gasped, “I don’t...”
He grunted as the man stepped up to him and plunged the knife into his chest.
As he collapsed onto his side on the cold, hard floor, in more pain than he could ever imagine, he thought desperately of Trish and Jay, how he didn’t want to leave them. And then his eyes fluttered shut and he thought of nothing.
Denny jerked awake, gasping for breath and shaking uncontrollably. He sat bolt upright and darted his eyes frantically around the room. It was dark, moonlight the only illumination to see by. There were no large, knife wielding men. He closed his eyes again and held his hands to his head, trying to calm his racing heart.
The nightmare had been so vivid, so real. And then he realised why. Not just a dream.
A memory.
He looked down at the spot on the floor in front of the chest of drawers. He couldn’t see the pale, scrubbed clean area on the floorboards in the dim light, but he knew it was there. The place where he’d bled out and died.
Now he understood why Oliver had said he might not want to remember his death. He wished he could forget it all again. The panic, the agony, the hopelessness as his life had drained away, it all came flooding back. Pain squeezed his chest and he shut his eyes against the tears. Why him? He’d never hurt anyone. Why did he have to die that way? And then anger began to replace the sadness. He died because, somehow,
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