Once Mary saw the spreading crimson stain on Johnny's chest, she couldn't tear her eyes away. Her own hands found their way to him, covered in her blood as well as his by now.
"Johnny," she choked out, and then she repeated herself, loudly, as though somehow that would bring him back to consciousness.
She didn't have time to grieve or time to worry because she looked up to see the serial killer moving in on her. The gun was pocketed, and the woman's face was enraged. Through all the torture sessions, Mary had never seen that expression on her captor's face. Her hand found Johnny's, even if she was just grasping at cold comfort at the moment.