self-para \ the sand runs out. men’s bathroom, rhee’s bar and grill. approximately 11:20 pm.
trigger warnings: knives, blood, murder, death.
i’m falling through the hourglass and i don’t think i’ll ever make it back so i throw stones at walls i’ll never climb, victim to the sands of time i’m falling through the hourglass, the hourglass.
Pierce would be lying if he said he hadn’t been distracted lately. His father had grown increasingly pushy in the last few months, begging and pleading for money. It was honestly pathetic, but the constant harassment was starting to wear him down. It was getting to the point where he felt he had only two options: either give him the change or cut him off. In addition to that, self-publishing his music had turned out to be a lot more complicated than he was expecting. But he was tired of keeping it to himself, tired of only showing his craft to Kahlan, to Emi, to Adee. It was beyond time for him to finally take the leap.
His phone buzzed again, and he jolted, his leg crashing into the surface before him. The glass of beer resting untouched on the table tumbled, spilling amber liquid all over him. He sighed, staring at the mess for a moment. The beer slowly rolled across the table like a wave, dripping over the side when it reached it, directly onto his jeans—just his luck.
Before cleaning it up, he tugged his phone out of his pocket. The number he’d expected flashed on-screen and he rolled his eyes, setting it on the other side of the table, away from the beer puddle. Slowly, Pierce got to his feet, moving towards the bathrooms as quickly as he could. Hopefully, no one was in there, and he could clean up before anybody noticed he was gone…or saw the mess on the table.
The bathroom was indeed deserted, and he sighed in relief as he moved toward the paper towel dispenser, grabbing a couple to begin the hopeless task of cleaning the alcohol off of his jeans. He patted off his pockets, feeling something stiff below the fabric.
Quickly, he dug out a small, folded-up piece of paper. Unfolding it, he realized it was an old draft of one of his songs. With a small laugh, he dumped it and the paper towels into the trash can. He didn’t need that draft anymore—the final was sitting on his kitchen table, waiting for him to finally deal with it tomorrow.
Grabbing a couple of extra paper towels, he moved to the sink, running the water to wash his hands. He also splashed some on the denim, hoping it would help rid the already-forming stain. As he did, he heard the door click open behind him.
“Sorry,” he said instinctively, not looking up, “I’ll just be a sec. Those tables are super easy to jiggle, eh?” Pierce chuckled. Whoever it was didn’t deign to give him a reply.
Eyebrows knitting together momentarily, he turned off the sink faucet, dabbing the last of the water from his jeans. Perhaps the recent events in the town just had him on edge, but something about the idea of being alone with someone in an enclosed area didn’t sit quite right with him. Pierce took a deep breath, stepping to the left to throw away the towels in his hand.
He never got the chance to step back.
Shooting pain drilled through the back of his abdomen, harsh enough for him to stumble forward, catching himself on the sink. His eyes darted down, red viscosity already mixing into the beer stain on his jeans. He should've trusted his instincts more.
Mouth open in a wordless O, he looked back in horror at his assailant. The masked figure was standing across from him in silence, silence as sharp as their blade; still in their hand, blood dripping from its point. Pierce could already feel the burn in his side, his arm snaking around to press a hand over the gaping hole. The knife hadn't come out cleanly, leaving a ragged tear in his shirt—the edges were already stained dark brown with blood.
Suddenly, urgency ripped through him. If he didn't move, he was going to die in this bathroom. Jerking into motion, Pierce clumsily whipped backward, using his momentum to stagger into the killer—because that's who they were, he was certain. They didn't seem to expect it, stumbling up against the wall. Immediately, he pushed towards the door, trying to put as much distance between himself and the other person as possible.
Foot slipping on the tile quickly slickening with his blood, he fell against the door, banging on the bottom. Somehow, it had been locked—the wood barely moved under his fist. A muffled cheer went up from outside. No one could hear him, and Pierce's heart sank at the realization.
Sharp pain tore a cry out of him as his assailant caught him messily on the leg once more. He blinked, trying to see through tears of pain. He could feel his heart thumping weakly against his chest, his breath coming in shallow gasps, and all he could think was this is it. I'm going to die here.
Pangs of regret began to numb the pain from his wounds, closing like a fist around his heart as he lay panting on the tile floor of the bathroom. Regret that he’d never be able to publish a song, and regret that he’d been selfish enough to keep them to himself. Regret that he’d never told Finley he still loved her, and regret that he’d never moved on. Regret that he’d never looked into his birth family, and regret that he’d never cut them off—too much regret for too little time.
The world was already flickering, and he screamed as another jolt of pain ran through his leg, though no noise came out. Through his dim and blurry vision, he could just barely make out the figure in front of him, pulling his leg towards them. They were trying to get him away from the door. He reached out an arm helplessly, every muscle shuddering before it dropped to the ground, the sheer strength needed to lift it already gone.
There was nothing he could do.
