Wounds: Part 1


It’s time for a new story. The last one was a bit…meh…I’m sure i’ll double back to it, flesh it out and make it something much better. But for now, after a little break, I’m back with a story that is more apt to my style and subject. I hope you enjoy “Wounds.”

-Lit Bandit

 

He stops walking. A look spreads across his face as if there was a bad taste in his mouth, or some sickening idea just flew across his mind.

A pain in his stomach. Something tearing in him. No. Something tearing into him.

A knife? He feels like he’s been stabbed. But there is no one else around.

Gun? He would have heard a shot. Wouldn’t he? He takes off his jacket and inspects the back. No bullet hole- that means there is no exit wound. No gun. So why is he bleeding?

No knife. No Gun. No one. Just a man- in the middle of the street- bleeding. And he’s starting to panic.

His feet won’t move.

“Hey!”

A voice. From where? He can’t see anyone.

“Hey! Get the fuck out of the road. You stupid?”

He wants to shout back. He wants to ask the voice for help. He can’t move, he’s too afraid to move. He’s just been shot. Or stabbed. Or…he’s just been attacked by something or someone.

A woman comes from the shadows, running, and pulls him onto the sidewalk just as a bus screams by.

“You stupid? You stupid in the head? You want to die?”

“I’m bleeding…” He whispers it, looking down and the front of his shirt blossoming in red.

“Stupid. Save your ass from that bus and no thanks. Stupid in the head.”

“Please…I’m hurt…badly. I need to go to the hospital…”

“What? What’s this shit you’re getting on my shoes? What’s wrong with you? You stupid?”

“Please…” Can’t she see? Can’t she see that he’s bleeding- that he’s dying?

He holds his hands out to her, dripping and red.

She steps back and out of the way. He falls onto his hands and knees, nearly sobbing.

“Stupid. Should have left you in the street. Let the bus deal with you. Waste of my time.”

She spits at him and walks away.

He’s going to die out here- watching blood leak from his stomach, spit in his hair- on a street he’s never been down before where there is no one else in sight. He’s going to die, and all he can do is watch and wait for it to happen.

His fingers run over his shirt. A hole gives him access to his flesh and the wound. His fingers slide into the blood and scrape against torn muscle.

He shudders and vomits.

“There’s a hole in me.” He tells the sidewalk. “A hole from nowhere. And it’s killing me.”

The sun begins to set over the man. No one has walked down the street. Not a car. Not even a sound. Blood pools in his lap, he keeps his eyes closed. He’s not praying, just trying to be somewhere else.

Something blocks out the sun.

Slowly he opens his eyes expecting to confront Death with his unjust demise.

Just a bus.

“You can’t just be sitting on the sidewalk like that. Dirty place, the gutter.”

The man smiles down at him from behind the wheel.

“Need a lift? Here, let me help you up. You look like you’ve had a rough day.”

The driver climbs down and lifts him with his hands under his arms.

“You carrying? You can’t get on my bus if you’re carrying.”

“I have a permit for it…”

“You a cop?”

“No…not anymore. Private.”

The driver stands there, mulling. “No. No. Sorry. You can’t get on if you have a piece.”

He touches his bleeding stomach thoughtfully. “If I lose the gun, you’ll take me to a hospital?”

“Lose it and climb in.”

He watches the setting sun burn on the gun metal through the window as the bus pulls from the sidewalk and continues down the road.

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About litbandit

El Bandito Bibliotequa...or something.
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