Galilee Rising(47)

Everyone backstage gawks as I walk in, not that I give a shit. I have to get away from here. Fast. Where the hell is my purse? "Hey, are you okay?" V asks, following behind me.

"I can't find my purse," I say, checking by the food.

"It's over here," she says, pointing to the chairs.

Thank God. "Thanks." I pick it up.

"Jo, are you sure you're okay? What you said was--"

"I know. It just, it needed to be said. If the truth makes me unpopular then I'm willing to make that sacrifice. And you can quote me on that."

"Here, here," Liberty cheers as she comes backstage. "That was bad-ass, JoJo. Kudos. And you can quote me on that too, reporter girl."

The gang's all here. I glance at the livid mayor, impassive Tempest, and concerned Nightingale. "What in the hell was--" Miracle says.

"Leave her alone," Nightingale orders, voice hard as titanium. Miracle's mouth snaps shut for the first time ever. Nightingale takes a step toward me. "Miss Fallon, are you alright?"

"Fine. I just have to get back to work. Excuse me."

I turn away from prying eyes and haul ass. When I step outside, the dispersing crowd eyes me with apprehension. Great, guess that could have gone better. At least I didn't have a panic attack, just verbal diarrhea. Yeah, much better. People love being made to feel like shit. I stride as fast as my high heels can take me out of the park, joining the anonymous people on the city sidewalks. I'm going to wander until I find the cork to the bottle of my emotions again.

That is if there are enough miles on the planet.



*



My aching feet know where I need to go. After about half a mile, I kick off my heels and pad barefoot along the river walk. The wet pavement does feel wonderful against my feet. Carefree college students and others jog past me without a glance. Just another normal person out and about on a normal day. I guess I knew where I was going when I left the tent. I've been putting this off for a year. I've been tempted a few times, even pushed the elevator button, but chickened out when the doors opened. Probably going to do the same today, but I am damn well going to try.

Just not alone.

I walk into the hospital, past the volunteer receptionists who know me to the elevators. Jem's office is on the fifteenth floor with the other neurologists. A few nurses glance at me and my now black bare feet, but I ignore them. Miranda, assistant to Jem and two others, grins as I approach. "Hello, Miss Fallon. Dr. Ambrose isn't here at the moment."

Of course not. "Do you know when he's expected back?"

"No, sorry. I can tell him you stopped by."

"No, that's okay. Thank you."

I trudge to the elevators in a haze. I don't know if I could or really should do this alone. Right now everything within me is disconnected, including the wiring inside my brain. Nothing seems real, nothing's substantial as if I'm a ghost haunting this realm. The last time I experienced this was before my last binge. I wanted the nothingness to remain so I drank for three days to make sure it would. Okay, I need to find a meeting. I resolve right now to not even look at alcohol for the rest of the day. I'll attend a dozen meetings if I have to. But first this. I have to do this. With or without Jem.

I ride the elevator up and down for a few minutes, standing in the back corner like a wallflower. Pregnant women, nurses, visitors, parties in wheelchairs all enter and leave. None go to my floor. I was hoping fate would intervene, but she must be busy. Hell, is she was in front of me, I'd punch the bitch in the face for all the literal grief she's determined is my lot in life. When the last person, a doctor I vaguely recognize, steps off on the eighth floor the elevator remains still. It won't move unless someone presses the button. I wait fifteen seconds for someone to save me from this, but no joy. Moment of truth. I take a deep breath and step forward to press the button for the roof.

The doors open a few tense seconds later, and I'm there. I think I may throw up.

It's windy, expanding my chills exponentially. I tug my coat closer. This was a stupid idea. What the hell was I thinking? The doors begin to close but my arm, acting on its own, blocks it. My legs have joined the revolt because they move me onto the concrete roof. I'm here. I did it. And it's exactly as I remember it. Raised helipad with a ramp. Stairwell door with a light above it. Huge silver air conditioning vents and other large machines. Chain link fence at an angle around the perimeter of the ledge strong enough to hold one but not two people. My nightmare landscape. The scene of the final battle between two godlike men hell bent on destroying each other with me caught in the middle.

It looks so…normal.

My legs propel me forward, but my brain is a few seconds behind. The stairwell door looks the same, undamaged, but if examined closely there are a few dents in the metal door and in the wall beside patches in lighter colors. Bullet holes from when Alkaline's goons shot at me. Missed blowing my brains out by a few centimeters. When I came back out with Justin, I shot right on back. Got a goon right between the eyes. The second man I've ever killed, and I pray the last. Though I had no choice either time sometimes guilt overwhelms me. No matter the justification, I've still taken lives. It's a heavy burden no matter the circumstances. I don't linger here.