For the next five seconds, my brain remained short-circuited. Just static. Nothingness.
Then, like a late download, it hit me, I could beg.
I could beg for my damn life.
"M-Mister, please," I whispered against the filthy hand clamped over my mouth. "Please, I wasn't—I didn't mean any harm. I was just—I thought you needed help, I wasn't gonna call the police, I swear—"
The gun pressed harder into my temple, and my words broke off into a tiny whimper.
"You say anything to that line?" he growled, voice still low and fraying at the edges, like it took effort just to speak.
I shook my head so fast it made me dizzy.
"No! No, I didn't—I didn't say anything yet, I swear—!"
"If you make another move like that," he murmured, still so close I could feel the words burning through my skin, "I'll carve your throat out with this gun and leave your body here for the fucking rats."
My legs nearly gave out. I felt myself trembling from the inside out.
He pulled his hand away slowly, but the muzzle of the gun never left my skull.
"Turn around. Slowly."
I did. I turned on shaky legs, whispering a prayer I hadn't said since I was twelve. Begging whatever version of God was out there to forgive me for all the unpaid debts and the dirty jokes and the nights I hated my life. I just wanted a shot at heaven. Or at least a chance to die somewhere that didn't smell like piss and rotting noodles.
And then I saw him.
His face was pale beneath the streaks of dried blood. His jet black hair hung in messy clumps. His features were sharp, dangerously pretty in a way that made no damn sense considering he was holding me at gunpoint. But it was his eyes, those grey soulless eyes—that stopped me.
They were unfocused, fluttering like he was fighting just to stay conscious.
He swayed again. The gun dipped slightly.
And then,
"Where's your phone?" he slurred, blinking hard, like he couldn't quite remember where he was, let alone what I said.
"I—it fell. It's—"
But before I could point, he wobbled again. His whole body leaned forward...
And then he crashed into me.
Hard.
My knees buckled under his weight. We went down like a sack of rocks, his body sprawling on top of mine, crushing the breath right out of my lungs.
"Ah—! Jesus—"
Was he unconscious?
Was I dead?
Was this hell?
Because it smelled exactly like sour beer, gunpowder, and blood.
I couldn't breathe. Mostly because I had what felt like a full-grown adult man pancaked on top of me, but also maybe because of the gun and the near-death and the stench of week-old trash marinating beside us.
"Get… off," I wheezed, squirming underneath him like a half-crushed cockroach. "Jesus—what the hell do you eat? Bricks?"
He didn't answer. He didn't move.
"Oh God, are you dead? Please don't be dead. Don't die on top of me, that's not how I want to go out—"
I gave a hard shove to his side and he rolled off me with a thud, just barely, like a sack of meat stuffed with secrets and trauma. I scrambled up on all fours like a baby deer learning to walk, snatched my bag off the dirty ground, grabbed my phone (miraculously unbroken), and then...
"Oh no—my ramen! My cheese sticks!"
I swiped up the bag of crushed noodles and the soggy plastic of hot dogs and mango yogurt, all while shaking so bad I looked like one of those inflatable tube men outside car dealerships. My hands were trembling. My knees were trembling. Even my soul was trembling.
And then I saw it.
The stain.
The wide, soaking patch of red across my white button-up shirt. My black skirt was smeared with it too. I looked like I'd just walked off the set of a low-budget horror film.
"Oh no no no no no—"
I dropped everything again and stood there frozen, staring at the blood like it was personally offensive.
"Why is there so much of it? Why is this my Tuesday?"
I looked at him.
Still lying there. Still breathing, barely. The pavement around him had turned black and glistening in the dim light, soaked in thick patches of blood. My stomach flipped. Something in me screamed Run, girl, RUN.
And I did. I actually took a step back. Thought about it. Wondered who I could call.
But my mind, sweet as ever, helpfully reminded me: I had no one.
No best friend. No big brother. No doting auntie to call in a panic. My family would probably ask who I was again if I showed up at the door in a bloodied shirt. I thought of Aaron for a second, but what was I supposed to say?
"Hey, so I found a dying man in a trash pile. Want to help me hide the body?"
Yeah. No.
I looked back.
He was still there. Barely moving. Like roadkill with a gun.
"Ughhhh, God," I groaned, pressing my hands to my face.
I knew I was about to make another stupid decision. Fantastic. Amazing. Why did I always do this? Why couldn't I just be the girl who ran and lets the news handle it? Why did I have to be… me?
I walked back to him. Slowly. Like I was approaching a haunted doll.
I squatted, hovering above his body like I was about to inspect a dying bird.
"You look injured," I muttered, half to him, half to myself. "Are you, like… a criminal?"
He groaned faintly, eyes half-open, the blood on his temple glistening as he muttered, "Get… away… from me."
"Yeah, you're real convincing right now," I said, glancing again at the ground. "You're bleeding out. Like, actively. That's your insides trying to be your outsides. We need to call an ambulance."
"Don't…" he rasped, and even now, even now, he had the nerve to point that damn gun in my direction, hand trembling. "…you dare."
"Oh, for the love of—" I groaned again, standing up. "What do you want? You wanna die here? In garbage? You think this is some tragic cool exit? Spoiler: it's not. You smell like rotten food and death."
"I'm not…" he coughed, weakly. "I can't… die here."
I scoffed so hard I nearly dislocated something. "Wow. Okay. Drama king."
I turned to walk away. Again.
I got maybe five steps before my brain did that thing it always does. That irritating, impulsive, self-destructive thing.
So yeah. I had the dumb idea.
Again.