1:14 pm
Two
rows of books behind me I hear a hushed voice. Mom,
I don’t know what to do.
It’s a young man; his throaty words are dry, hoarse and broken.
I’m scared.
Pause.
The
voice is fighting back tears. A
woman was shot in the head. I can practically reach out and touch
her. Another
long pause before: What
should I do?
His voice rises, then, catching himself, he brings his volume back
down to a trembling whisper.
Pause.
Maybe
I should run for it.
I can feel his panic.
Pause.
No, I don’t
see the shooter.
Pause.
The
voice breaks: I
love you too.
I
hear him drawing in huge draughts of air. I’m
going to run for it.
Pause.
I won’t hang
up.
I hear the sound
of slapping feet against the linoleum floor as the owner of the
faceless voice races towards the stairs. I hold my breath,
anticipating the worst. But no hammer slams down: no gunshot
resounds.
That’s when I
see it… hovering over me… holding a gun. It’s bleeding: shot
in its leg. How?
Dude,
you’re not looking so good.
It wipes blood off its brow with the sleeve of its shirt.
Sliding to the
ground, it unbuckles its belt and makes a tourniquet for its leg.
When I try to sit
up, I begin to cough and sputter.
It
puts its hand on my shoulder. Chill
bro, stay still.
There’s compassion in its voice… something that I’ve never
detected from it before. It pulls its hoodie off and covers my chest
with it. You
need to press this into the wound to slow the bleeding.
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