His hands were pressed tightly against the hole in my chest. Blood oozed out from beneath his fingers. He released a fraction of the pressure, and my blood spurted into his face. He cursed and covered the wound again, applying more pressure.
I was gargling the crimson liquid, gasping for breath as drops of blood filled my longs. My hand gripped his arm tightly, and I spoke the only way I could: With my eyes. Save me. Is that selfish? What if someone else is dying on the next alleyway over?
He yelled for help. Screamed with all the power his lungs had. But no one came.
I guess I should tell you how I got this way. I have time, don’t I?
Well, maybe not. I’m dying here, you see. I think the blood probably made that obvious, though. Well you’re right, then, if that’s what you thinking. I’m a dead man…well I’m not exactly walking or even talking. So…dead man living?
But I’m not a zombie. Promise. (if I was I’d never tell you anyway)
So here I am. Lying on the cold urban floors – the asphalt sleek from recent rain. And my blood. That helped make the ground wet, too. Disgusting, right?
Sometimes I ask myself what I’m doing here.
Actually, scratch that. No I don’t. I’ve never been shot before. But I guess there’s a first time for everything, right? And hey, you know what they say about trying new experiences. Let me just say that that shouldn’t be applied to everything. Getting shot isn’t really an experience you want to try out.
Unless you’re just some sort of psychopath that likes pain.
I’m not, I swear.
I’m just a guy that was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or maybe it was really the right place at the right time. They say getting shot is a life changing moment.
My life’s exactly the same. Except, you know, for the hole in my chest. And I’m dying. But technically I was always dying, so that’s not new or life changing.
So, what, am I supposed to be thinking about all the ways I should change my life if I ever get out of this? Are all of my memories supposed to be flashing before my eyes? Because they’re not. I don’t think. Unless this guy who’s trying to save me was in every second of my life. Because that’s all I see right now. Then again, my vision is blackening, and it is a little fuzzy. Maybe I’m just imagining the guy. Maybe my life is flashing before my eyes but just in the corners that I can’t see because of the black spots.
That would suck.
Seriously, think about it. You’re dying and all your good memories are right in front of you. Except you can’t see them so they’re not really right in front of you.
Well that’s depressing, isn’t it?
Then again, death is kinda depressing. I think I’m qualified to speak on the matter because, as you can tell, I’m kinda dying right now.
Yeah, just kinda. Who knows, that guy with his hands on my chest might be some sort of wizard or something.
Then again, if he is, I could also be screwed. Maybe he’s just making it worse.
Suddenly I want to yell at him to get off me. But no, that would be stupid. He’s trying to save me. Right?
Maybe I should be yelling. Maybe I should be thinking of all the moments in my life. Maybe I should be thinking about how I’d change my life if I get out of this.
So much pressure.
But you know what? All I’m thinking about is this hole in my chest. I think I’m entitled to that, considering it hurts like hell.
But maybe I’m just being selfish.
Oh, right, I was going to tell you how I got here, wasn’t I?
Well, maybe I won’t be able to after all. I think I’m about to di—