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Jonathan

Blood has soaked through the gauze, through the shirt, through the jacket. It even soaked into her shirt as she thrashed through her nightmare. This is not a good sign. It means the bullet has relocated to a place where it could do more damage.

I need to get to the restroom. I need to inspect the wound, but she is right there, watching me with her sad, scared eyes.

I consider telling her I have been shot, but I have a feeling that might scare her more. It might be a hint that I am disturbed—that I was willing to risk death for a fuck.

It is better if I wait. I will let her go ahead. I will go to the bathroom. I will stop the bleeding; then I will come back and make it up to her. I will be normal just for her. For the next nine hours. For as long as I can be.

“I’ll see you back at the car,” she says. She even makes this hopeless little wave. My heart breaks a little. This is another reason I avoid drugs. Coming down, I am soaked with the sadness of the whole damn world.

As soon as she is gone, I climb out of the rack. I land hard on my feet and stagger sideways.

My head feels dislocated. My body tingles with numbness. I grip the metal bars. I stare at the floor. I am about to pass out. Shit. This is not good.

I force my body toward the restroom. I swing unsteadily from one rack to the next, gripping the poles so I do not collapse. The train wobbles sickeningly beneath me.

My body is so relieved when I shut the door that it collapses. I grab for something to keep me from hitting the floor too hard but find only the toilet paper roll, which noisily unfurls.

I hit the floor with a resounding smack! It wakes me up a little.

I force my eyes open. I have to stay awake. I have to stay alive. I cannot leave her now. She will take it the wrong way. She will internalize it. She will think there is something wrong with her, when as far as I can tell she is perfect. I have to stay awake. I have to stay alive.

I take a big, gulping breath. Then another one. But it is like grasping at straws.

I need to examine the wound. I need to extract the bullet. Maybe I do not need Mas. Maybe I can do it myself.

I force myself to sit up, clawing at the walls. They tilt, or something inside my brain does. The room spins. Fuck.

I take a deep breath. I touch my shoulder. The wetness shocks me. It is far more blood than I expected. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I can do this. Calm. Stay calm.

I lean forward. I start to take off my jacket.

Something happens. I lose time. When I come around, I am on the floor again. The toilet is rattling above me. The floor is still vibrating. The train is still moving. I can still find her. I just have to stay alive. I just have to wake up.

I reach for something. I find nothing.

Sounds feel far away. My body feels far away. I have to get back to it. I am dying. Again.