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"IT'S OKAY."
HE didn't even realize he was mumbling it. Over and over again: "It's okay. You're okay. It'll be okay."
At that moment, the futility of mumbling such things to a dying little girl didn't occur to him. Perhaps he was saying it to himself. He didn't know. He didn't know if it would even be okay; the words tumbled from his quivering mouth without thought.
For all he knew, the streams of crimson blood gushing from the gash in her neck could paint the colorless sky – even with his hands pressing down on the wound itself. Yet, all it was accomplishing was drowning his shaky hands in a pool of her blood. What he wanted was to stop the incessant bleeding, and it became evident that that was impossible.
He retracted his hands, wide eyes staring down at the blood dripping from his withered fingertips and sliding down his pale wrists. Every subtle quiver shook more of the ruby-colored gore off, but it had begun to seep into the lines of his palm and under his fingernails. And even if he could somehow scrub it off, it'd be a stain he'd always remember. Hoping to erase the image from his tarnished mind was a pipe-dream.
Her chest heaved, jolting up and down, but no actual breaths escaped her; only gurgles and spurts of blood erupted from her trembling mouth. He couldn't begin to imagine such a thing: wanting to speak, but being cut off by your own blood. He just couldn't imagine being in her shoes in any way. "It's okay," he mumbled again, a hand on her arm, fingertips caressing the tattoo that tainted her clear skin.
She wouldn't die alone. That was his only objective. Even while her death was something unavoidable, he wanted to make it as soothing for her as possible — as soothing as getting your throat slit can possibly be.
Her hazy, dark eyes would be able to fixate on his tired expression instead of the dark skies ahead. She'd feel his comforting, shaky touch, rather than just the wet cement beneath her small frame.
As much as he unconsciously hoped the weight of his bloody hand on hers would tether her to whatever remnants of life she had, being such an anchor was an unrealistic expectation. With the stilling of her movements and the settling of her quiet eyes, Parker felt yet another wave of disappointment wash over him.
He wasn't even aware that he expected something beneficial to come out of a lost cause until his chest caved with the sudden weight of reality. The reality in which Subject One, a nameless, brilliant, lonely little girl, had died an unjust death; in which a child had been murdered right in front of him, and there was nothing anyone could do. Even Carson, the ablest person Parker knew, couldn't prevent such a tragedy.
