For the six sentence prompts, could you do Mike and Jess reuniting at the end of the game?
By the time the cop decided he was done with her, the light of his camera had scorched a hole in her vision, throbbing black and green like the bruises she felt growing every time she breathed. He didn’t seem to care, though, just pushed the door open and held it there, sucking his teeth when she stumbled once, twice, fell back in her chair completely before finding her feet; even through the haze of her exhaustion, she knew he thought she was faking, playing up the injuries in a middle school attempt to distract from the holes in her story, but what he believed didn’t matter to her when all she could think about was lying down, closing her eyes, disappearing completely—and Mike.
Like she’d conjured him out of thin air, there were suddenly arms around her, a weight against hers, and it was only later, when she was piecing everything together from the sterile safety of a hospital bed, that she’d understand another door had opened in the station. “Jess,” he said, his voice rasped and tight with strain, “Jesus Christ, Jess, Jesus fucking Christ, I thought…I thought…”
He was kneeling, she thought, his arms around her waist and his face buried in the fabric of some forgotten miner’s jacket, and that was good—that was really, really good, actually—because that was when her knees buckled, her body giving up the fight now that she knew he was safe.
“I knew you’d come,” she almost laughed, the world spinning, spinning, spinning as that black-green hole from the camera opened wide and Mike’s arms braced her against whatever came next, “I knew you would.”
