For A Writers Life jsw prompt
Her body was battered and bruised when Bill found her huddled near the dumpster. How the devil had the bastard found her? Bill grabbed a blanket from the trunk of his sedan and ran to where she lay. “Oh please don’t let her be dead,” he uttered a silent prayer to whoever might be listening.
He felt for a pulse and realized that she was shivering from the cold. Alive, but barely. Bill wrapped her in the blanket and carried her to the car, carefully laying her on the back seat. Must get her warm. Bill drove cautiously to a small infirmary hidden deep in a disreputable area. He had friends there, she would be safe.
Rochella woke to feel the splendid warmth of fire and blankets. She was alive. She hadn’t expected to be. Johnston had been furious at her betrayal. Somehow, in spite of the best efforts of the police, he had found her. She shuddered at the memory of his blood red eyes and the chain in his hand.
Rochella was glad to be alive but wherever she was she had to get out. Had to run, get away, far away. People around her were not safe, Johnston would find her again, she was sure. She looked around and found clothes laid out on a small table near the bed. Rising stiffly, she dressed and grabbed her rucksack.
Bill saw Rochella leave and hurried after her. As she reached for the door he grabbed her by the arm. “Rochella, don’t go. Stay and I’ll protect you.”
He looked into her eyes, seeing her answer there. Bill draped his slicker around her shoulders. “It’s raining.”
She smiled, then walked through the door.
“I love you,” he called.
“I’m sorry,” was all she said.
With that she walked into the rain and didn’t look back.
That was the last time anyone ever saw her.