Read Online Critical Injuries by Joan Barfoot - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joan Barfoot
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wanted it not to be real, I wanted to rewind the day.â
Maybe she manages some small sound of impatience; at any rate, he glances at her, says, âSorry.â
âYou were lying on your side, at my feet, just inside the door. Your head was so close I could have tripped over it. There was blood. Youâd think Iâd have seen blood before, violent blood, but I havenât. And even if I had, it wouldnât have been the same. It wouldnâtâve been yours.
âThere was a kid. Sort of freckled, and real short-cropped blondish-red hair, weâve seen him around town. Just a kid, except he was holding a shotgun. Pointed at the floor, though. Or not so much pointed as just hanging off his fingers. He was staring at you. I donât know if he even noticed me. He looked as if he was going to faint, not a drop of blood in his face.
âI donât know what I was thinking; maybe that if I didnât move or say anything, it wouldnât be real. Like a nightmare, you know? Maybe it was the same for him. It sure didnât look like anything heâd meant to do, or set out to do, and maybe he couldnât believe it, either.
âThe cops asked me later how long it was before somebody called them, and I had no fucking clue. We could have been standing there looking at you for a few seconds or a few hours, for all the sense I had about time. But it could only have been seconds. Seems to me now the sound of the door buzzer was still in the air when the clerkâs head started poking up from behind the counter, and as soon as there was a movement, even that small one, the moment was broken. The clerk was just a kid, too, Iâve forgotten his name. Iâve forgotten everybodyâs name, I think, except yours and mine. Except hang on, I remember him saying something like, âShit, Roddy, what did you do?â so that must be his name, Roddy. The big kid, the clerk, was shaking like crazy, but he came around the counter and reached out and took the shotgun away. Just like that. So he had more presence of mind than I did. And I guess he was brave. Itâs a wonder the goddamn thing didnât go off again, his hands were trembling so badly.
âThe other kid, Roddy or whatever, he didnât even try to hold on to the gun, or do anything with it. When heâd let go of it, he doubled over and threw up. And then he ran. Turned around and bolted through the back, we heard the door slam behind him.
âI didnât care where the hell heâd gone, or what happened to him at that point. I got my voice back, and I yelled at the clerk to call the ambulance, the cops, the fire department, anybody, and I was on my knees checking you out, calling your name. I could see you were hurt, but while there was blood, there wasnât really a whole lot of it, up close. I mean, not pools or anything. And you were alive, you were breathing. I couldnât see what was damaged, but I knew to be careful not to go shifting you.â
He himself shifts in his bedside chair. Lucky him, sitting up, leaning over. Moving. Being capable of discomfort.
None of what heâs saying rings a bell; but then of course, as he points out, she was unconscious. She guesses she can spare him some sympathy, for being the one to almost stumble over her head, to be frozen by blood, to go through the process of becoming unfrozen.
When will that happen to her?
âIt felt like forever before anybody turned up, although I understand now it was under four minutes. An eternity at the time. The kid, the clerk, was crying, kind of wailing away at the counter. I wanted to lie down on the floor with you and hold you, but all I could safely touch was your face. I think I was talking to you, but for sure I remember stroking your forehead, and smoothing your hair. I didnât know if you could feel anything, or if you were right out.â
He looks, briefly, uncomfortable; as if he has blundered. Which of all
Maybe she manages some small sound of impatience; at any rate, he glances at her, says, âSorry.â
âYou were lying on your side, at my feet, just inside the door. Your head was so close I could have tripped over it. There was blood. Youâd think Iâd have seen blood before, violent blood, but I havenât. And even if I had, it wouldnât have been the same. It wouldnâtâve been yours.
âThere was a kid. Sort of freckled, and real short-cropped blondish-red hair, weâve seen him around town. Just a kid, except he was holding a shotgun. Pointed at the floor, though. Or not so much pointed as just hanging off his fingers. He was staring at you. I donât know if he even noticed me. He looked as if he was going to faint, not a drop of blood in his face.
âI donât know what I was thinking; maybe that if I didnât move or say anything, it wouldnât be real. Like a nightmare, you know? Maybe it was the same for him. It sure didnât look like anything heâd meant to do, or set out to do, and maybe he couldnât believe it, either.
âThe cops asked me later how long it was before somebody called them, and I had no fucking clue. We could have been standing there looking at you for a few seconds or a few hours, for all the sense I had about time. But it could only have been seconds. Seems to me now the sound of the door buzzer was still in the air when the clerkâs head started poking up from behind the counter, and as soon as there was a movement, even that small one, the moment was broken. The clerk was just a kid, too, Iâve forgotten his name. Iâve forgotten everybodyâs name, I think, except yours and mine. Except hang on, I remember him saying something like, âShit, Roddy, what did you do?â so that must be his name, Roddy. The big kid, the clerk, was shaking like crazy, but he came around the counter and reached out and took the shotgun away. Just like that. So he had more presence of mind than I did. And I guess he was brave. Itâs a wonder the goddamn thing didnât go off again, his hands were trembling so badly.
âThe other kid, Roddy or whatever, he didnât even try to hold on to the gun, or do anything with it. When heâd let go of it, he doubled over and threw up. And then he ran. Turned around and bolted through the back, we heard the door slam behind him.
âI didnât care where the hell heâd gone, or what happened to him at that point. I got my voice back, and I yelled at the clerk to call the ambulance, the cops, the fire department, anybody, and I was on my knees checking you out, calling your name. I could see you were hurt, but while there was blood, there wasnât really a whole lot of it, up close. I mean, not pools or anything. And you were alive, you were breathing. I couldnât see what was damaged, but I knew to be careful not to go shifting you.â
He himself shifts in his bedside chair. Lucky him, sitting up, leaning over. Moving. Being capable of discomfort.
None of what heâs saying rings a bell; but then of course, as he points out, she was unconscious. She guesses she can spare him some sympathy, for being the one to almost stumble over her head, to be frozen by blood, to go through the process of becoming unfrozen.
When will that happen to her?
âIt felt like forever before anybody turned up, although I understand now it was under four minutes. An eternity at the time. The kid, the clerk, was crying, kind of wailing away at the counter. I wanted to lie down on the floor with you and hold you, but all I could safely touch was your face. I think I was talking to you, but for sure I remember stroking your forehead, and smoothing your hair. I didnât know if you could feel anything, or if you were right out.â
He looks, briefly, uncomfortable; as if he has blundered. Which of all
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