Love is never easy.
That’s what I kept telling myself every time Mike and I had one of our ‘discussions’. You’ve gotta work at it, make compromises, smooth things down. You know?
Of course, Mike’s idea of ‘working at it’ was to fuck more, and to bring me flowers. Sweet, but kinda missing the point when the main problem was that he spent money like a millionaire, but his house was always on the point of being repossessed because he ‘forgot’ to make the repayments. Moron. Yeah, I could’ve made them for him, I know. But why the hell should I finance his bad habits? Hard work and sensible spending got me where I am today. Where I was, I mean.
Things were OK, though, you know? Then one moonlit night we were sitting on the little balcony outside Mike’s bedroom, watching our neighbours’ regular Kama Sutra show and quietly giving each effort a score, and arguing in whispers about when each particular ‘performance’ ended and began. Mike turned to me and he said, very casually, “Baby, do you think they’d let us join in?”
That was the beginning of the end – to quote Shakespeare or some other dead writing guy.
Oh, fuck. Gotta go – something’s happening.
The black fades away. Linda has me by the shoulders, and she’s shaking me and screaming in my face.
“Don’t you DARE fucking die, arsehole! I need you! DON’T fucking die! Get BACK!”
There’s no more black, no more pain, just Linda and a light that’s getting brighter and brighter.
“GET! BACK! NOW!”
She’s stopped shaking me, she’s shoving me backwards, and I’m so tired, and the light starts to dim into blackness again.
The light’s getting brighter again, and a male voice is calling my name. Can’t people leave me the fuck alone? I open my eyes and raise my hands to shove away the annoying git shining a light into my eyes, and scream with pain. My left shoulder is white-hot with pain again, and pokers of pain are stabbing into my neck and down my arm.
“FUCK!” I yell.
“DON’T. MOVE!” the man shouts at me, and I’m happy to do what I’m told.
I blink, and breathe, and calm down a bit. The room’s bright white everywhere – walls, ceiling, sheets. I’m in a bed. Hospital?
“You had an accident at the jail, Mr French,” the man says.
I shake my head.
“I was shot,” I say, remembering the stranger with the gun.
The man nods.
“In the shoulder. We’ve operated and removed the bullet, but you’ll need to be careful of it while it’s healing,” he says.
Yeah. I’d noticed that bit.
Leave a Comment
No comments yet.