He yanked his hand away, as if from the red-hot burner of a stove.
The wound had burned, though not at first. In the beginning, there was an explosive, ear-ringing noise, a sensation of pressure, and shock. But then it burned like hell. By the time the woman tried breathing again, blood had begun to fill the—
“Nope.” He shook his head. Dark brown strands, still upright from sleep, wobbled on the crown of his head. “Not that.” The pursuit of that led no place good.
He cleared his throat and pushed past the interference from her. Before she looked at the red stain collecting between her fingers, what did she see? A gun. Maybe a Glock. A hand trembling in a death-grip. Either white or Latino. Brian followed the arm up to the shoulder and tried to see the face beyond. It was tan and elongated, clean-shaven, and topped with a mop of black hair. Just a kid.
Brian let go of the bullet hole and got into a crouch to inspect the grass.
A long time ago, he had stopped asking why shitty things happened to people. The answer, usually, was other people – occasionally cancer – but usually people and, it seemed to him, most people didn’t have a good reason for the harm they did. Just fear or jealousy or a creeping, black cloud of rage followed by a load of excuses. It was better if he didn’t get caught up wondering why the kid had shot the woman and then run before she had a chance to hit the ground. But he had a theory that the kid would come back. That’s another thing people did when they had regrets.
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timeasmymeasure
Re: Lost Sleep
Date: 2016-01-11 07:13 pm (UTC)The wound had burned, though not at first. In the beginning, there was an explosive, ear-ringing noise, a sensation of pressure, and shock. But then it burned like hell. By the time the woman tried breathing again, blood had begun to fill the—
“Nope.” He shook his head. Dark brown strands, still upright from sleep, wobbled on the crown of his head. “Not that.” The pursuit of that led no place good.
He cleared his throat and pushed past the interference from her. Before she looked at the red stain collecting between her fingers, what did she see? A gun. Maybe a Glock. A hand trembling in a death-grip. Either white or Latino. Brian followed the arm up to the shoulder and tried to see the face beyond. It was tan and elongated, clean-shaven, and topped with a mop of black hair. Just a kid.
Brian let go of the bullet hole and got into a crouch to inspect the grass.
A long time ago, he had stopped asking why shitty things happened to people. The answer, usually, was other people – occasionally cancer – but usually people and, it seemed to him, most people didn’t have a good reason for the harm they did. Just fear or jealousy or a creeping, black cloud of rage followed by a load of excuses. It was better if he didn’t get caught up wondering why the kid had shot the woman and then run before she had a chance to hit the ground. But he had a theory that the kid would come back. That’s another thing people did when they had regrets.
They haunted places.