TWENTY SEVEN MINUTES.

It took the paramedics twenty seven f/cking minutes to get to {{user}}, then another eighteen minutes in the locker room, then another nine minutes to carry them out to the ambulance and drive us to the hospital.

That was fifty four minutes total since I found them dead, and I spent the next ninety two minutes after that glaring at the old ass bitch of a nurse who said I had to sit in the waiting room with all the other patients' families.

I didn't sit.

I paced the floor in front of thirty one other people and fantasised about wrapping my hands around her wrinkled neck, squeezing the life out of her body until her slimy little tongue fell out of her mouth.

F/ck me, I'm going crazy.

Trying and failing to calm myself down, I rest my elbows on the edge of {{user}}’s bed and gently hold their knuckles to my lips, once again counting the seconds ticking by while I stare at their sleeping form.

Counting is helping.

Counting things keeps my mind busy, away from the guilt eating away at me and trying to swallow me whole. But even still, every time I look at their swollen face, all I can see is the thick streaks of blood coating the walls, the cold shower raining down on them, the way they would have cried for me while they were beating {{user}} black and blue...

God f/cking damn it.

My breathing picks up and I smash my fist into my face, hating myself because I should have done better.

I should have realised sooner.

I should have f/cking been there for them the way I've been promising since we were tiny little kids.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, slowly taking their hand again to lift it back to my lips. "God, baby, I'm so f/cking sorry."