story start: ballads for bullets

I guess all the shit started when I was walking home after grocery shopping that night, when I was at the corner of Jefferson and Sixteenth. Now you might think, "But Jefferson and Sixteenth don't intersect." Well, they do... it's one of those things that you wouldn't know unless you've been around some of the seedier parts of town. It's one of those places where I had to travel in order to get home everyday. The corner is pretty wide open, but there isn't a lot as far as apartments or anything for another block. In fact it's pretty dead during all hours of the day, but it looks innocent enough usually. Well, usually.
At the corner, there was a bum sitting in a rags, leaning against a derelict building. He was a black guy with a mangie looking beard, wearing a pair of worn, dirt covered chinos and a brown hoodie that couldn't even mask the filth around his back and shoulders anymore. As I passed him, I heard him stand up, followed by a click.
"What the fuck do you got?" he asked, as I slowly turned around to see the barrel of a colt revolver pointing at me from his hip. It was wrapped in both of his chapped, trembling hands and I could see his eyes in the glow of the streetlights. They were cracked and red, like he was just getting off a binge. I said nothing, but stood there holding the groceries.
"Nigga, drop yo' fuckin' bags," he said, nodding up at me. So I did. That's when I got stupid. I ran at him and judging from the spooked look in his eyes, I could tell he didn't appreciate my cooperation. With a loud boom, I could see smoke trail from the muzzle of the gun as my left side folded like a broken pillar. I nearly fell but managed to keep stride, before I grabbed the gun in his hand and wrestled with it before he had time to pull the hammer back again. This guy was spun as fuck, which gave him a little more strength than his emaciated body normally would've had, but it wasn't enough to stop me from moving the hand he carried the gun with. As I pulled it up to our face level, he found his strength again and hit me in the mouth with the barrel of the weapon. That only infuriated me and I used my free hand to jab him in the throat, thrusting the second knuckles on my index and middle finger. It hurt me a little, but the precise jab made him lose stability over the weapon. He still had a hand on it, but now I had both of my hands planted on the piece as I pointed the end to his temple, and using my index finger I pulled back the hammer. With a kick to his knee he was losing the strength to keep fighting me and my adrenaline was rushing like a broken fire hydrant. I couldn't feel the tears welling up in my eyes or the hastening of my breath- I could only feel my fingers pressing his finger down, on the trigger. With another boom, he fell down on his side and speckles of his brain dotted my face with red.
Quickly, I pulled the gun from his hand and kicked his limp body onto its stomach. I fished the wallet from the back of his jeans and dropped both of them in one of my bags, with my tomatos and lettuce. Quickly I fled, as I could feel the intense pain from my side. It felt wet as hell, so I put all my bags in my right hand and felt within my black hoodie, dragging my fingers along my gray shirt that portrayed some festival for a school event that I never actually attended. My shirt was soaked and I could feel it sticking to my skin, which was too tender to touch. Pulling my hand up, I was horrified at the sight of my own blood, but kept trudging on as salty tears dripped down my cheeks and lips. I kept looking behind me, afraid that I might be trailing blood, but it was soaking into my clothes well enough. I still kept looking back though, fearful that someone would follow my trail to the two blocks back to my apartment.
I wiped my bloodied fingers on my right shoulder and reached through the gate, unlocking it as I lifted the bag burdened right hand to twist the door knob. I swung it open quickly and it hit the gate with a loud clang, like I'd do so often on nights that I stumbled home drunk. I heard some chitter chatter to my right and saw a hispanic woman talking to a young white man. I smiled, and hoped they couldn't see the speckles of blood on my face or the growing red stain on my shirt in the shadow of my unlit front steps. They just smiled back and I quickly pushed open my front door, stepping in and falling to the floor.
"Help!" I cried out to my roommates, as I placed both my hands on the hard, black painted wood beneath me to try and push myself up.
"Ben?"It was Martin- he was an art curator who lived above me, in my four floor apartment. We met in college and rented out this two floor studio together, although others moved in soon after.
"I need help!" I cried again. He stumbled down the steps of the fourth floor and then down the steps of our central floor to the door. I couldn't see him peering at me, but I could feel him helping me to my feet. He locked the door behind us and helped me up the steps.
As we got to the top of the stairs, to the central floor of our studio, he said, "What the fuck happened?" Ryan, another one of my roommates stumbled down the stairs after him in only his underwear, and peering at Martin I saw that he was still wearing his white skinny jeans and a pink dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
"I got fucking shot." Martin helped me to the couch and I layed down on my right side, ontop of a white comforter. It was my white comforter, given to me by a girl I used to roll around with who thought I needed lighter blankets in the summer heat. She was probably right, but unfortunately, this blanket wasn't going to last though the night.
"Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit," Ryan kept murmering over and over. He was probably high on amphetamines or something, which wasn't abnormal since he was this reknowned artist who frequently imbibed. He stood there, gawking at me as I forced myself onto my ass, sitting up so I could slowly draw off my hoodie. It was soaked in blood and hit the hard wood floor with a plop. Grasping the bottom of my shirt, I slowly drew it up. As it peeled off my skin, I was filled with more pain than I had ever felt before that knocked the fucking breath out of me. I couldn't lift it off though, because my left arm was growing limp.
"Get me a fucking knife, Martin! Ryan, go get your vodka from upstairs!" I was yelling at my roommates for no reason at all, but I assumed they understood my plight.
"Is everything alright?" It was Ryan's girlfriend from upstairs. I couldn't remember her name then and I can't remember it now.
"Baby, bring down the vodka and a knife off Martin's desk!" Ryan yelled up to her. Martin and Ryan were hovering around me, unsure of what to do.
"We need to go to the hospital," Martin said to me and I peered up at him, as I could feel a trail of blood trickle from the side of my lip, with an angry grimace.
"I'm not going fucking anywhere. I just killed a guy, okay? Do me a favor and put a pan on the stove," I spit out, some blood as I spoke. It wasn't coming up from any vital organs, but from the split lip I had when I was hit in the mouth. The salty, coppery taste began to fill my mouth and I thought I might throw up.
"You did what?" Martin asked.
"Just go!" I screamed this time, and he quickly turned to the kitchen down the hall. I heard him lighting the stove and setting a pan on it, but I peered up at the stairs where Ryan's girlfriend was coming down. She was in her underwear and she looked at me like she saw a horror scene, carrying a jug of cheap vodka and a pocket knife.
"What happened?" she said, and Ryan grasped the knife from her and handed it to me. I pulled it open, peering at the serrated and straight edge along it that was accented by a metallic red handle and abrasive grip. I brought the knife to my neck and slid the blade beneath my collar, cutting down the middle of the shirt while trying to be very careful to keep the blunt edge to my skin.
"He got shot," Ryan said to her as he took the bottle of vodka from her. Although I knew she was Ryan's girl and I wasn't particularly into her, the sight of her in her underwear really took my mind off the pain as I reached the bottom of the shirt, pulling it open and sliding it the damp shirt off my shoulders. I threw the destroyed garment to the ground and pulled the bottle of vodka from Ryan. I tried twisting open the cap, but it was too tight and I was two weak.
"Here, let me," he said, opening the bottle and handing it to me. I lifted it to my lips and took a couple of shots, hoping it might numb the pain. It didn't. It just made me want to throw up more, but held it down.
"Listen... I need you to wash my wound with this. You have to do it," I said now at a normal tone. His girlfriend hurried to the bathroom and he stepped around the couch as I began to lay backwards.
"Wait. You know your back is bleeding too, right?" At first I didn't understand what he meant but I yielded anyway. It became clear though, that the bullet which had entered me at the side of my front had exited out the side of my back. I peered down and my jeans were dark red and I began undoing my belt buckles, kicking them off and thanking God I didn't wear my skinny jeans that day. My white and blue boxers were now flat red, along with a good portion of the comforter I was sitting on. Ryan's girl ran up with some towels and handed it to him as he pulled the stopper out of the top of the bottle, pouring vodka onto the towel and then some more onto my back. He began wiping it along my skin. The pain that came from it was sensationally staggering. If I was just tearing up before, I was definitely crying now and whining with every wipe over the exit wound. His girlfriend took over and held the towel against my wound as Ryan came to my front and began working to clean that up.
Martin soon joined me with two cigarettes in his mouth, both of them lit. He pulled one out and I nodded as he set it on my bloody bottom lip. The nicotine made things a little better, but I could barely breathe enough to take in a good drag. He then asked, "What now?"
"Bring that pan over," I said, and he returned to the kitchen as Ryan finished cleaning up the wound right under my ribs. He held the towel against me and even though there was pressure on the wound, I knew I was still bleeding. I'd be dead in a few minutes if I didn't do something.
It wasn't long before Martin had brought the pan over. It was one of those small pots for boiling water or making canned soup. Nothing special, but it was exactly what I needed.
"Take the towel off my back," I said and Ryan's girlfriend did. I could feel blood begin to drip out of it again and I said, "Martin. I need you to push that pan as hard against the wound as possible."
"What?" he said, and I knew he was only asking because he was afraid of my well-being, not because he didn't understand. However I wasn't in any position to be polite.
"Just fucking do it!" I yelled, and he came behind me, taking the towel Ryan's girl held and using it to clutch the pan tightly. I peered into Ryan's eyes as I could feel the hot pan push against my wound... and for a moment, I considered what pain he or his girlfriend or Martin might feel watching me die for no reason. But then all at once, I could feel my skin dry and blister as the hot piece of cast iron was pushed into my flesh. I screamed louder than I had ever before and wanted to beg him to stop, but I knew he had to hold it for at least a couple of seconds. However, it felt like he was holding it forever. After what felt like ten minutes, which probably was less than thirty seconds, Martin pulled the pan off me and I don't even want to begin to imagine what he saw. I just layed back and Ryan followed me, making sure to hold my wound tight.
"I'm going to need you to heat that up again... and do it to my front," I said, almost wishing there was another option. Martin hurried off again as I felt like fainting. I couldn't though, because I felt like I was the only one who knew what needed to be done. The cigarette was stuck to the drying blood of my lip and was nearly gone, although I felt like I hadn't even taken more than a puff of it. I pried it off and chucked it to the other side of the room and Ryan's girlfriend quickly hurried to grab the bloodied filter that was left and dropped it into the ash tray on the table across from the couch. I began to notice music playing faintly on Martin's stereo upstairs. It was a nice little rock diddy, from some obscure indie band that played with a fast tempo and light vocals. I loved it.
Martin soon returned again with the same pan, heated up again, and this time Ryan and Martin knew what they were doing. Ryan lifted the towel off my front and Martin pressed the corner of the pot below my ribs. The pain was seering and I couldn't even look. I just grabbed a lighter off the ottoman and stuck it between my teeth, biting down at it sharply between my molars so I wouldn't risk biting off my tongue as tears dripped down the sides of my face. Ryan's girlfriend disappeared up the stairs and I stared at her ass for what felt like forever, waiting for Martin to pull the pan from my wound. As he did, Ryan dropped the towel ontop of it before I could see it. It was just fine... I didn't want to see my skin bubbled up and the blackened blood clotting the hole going through me. I just spit out the lighter and let myself breathe again, as hard it was. I grabbed the other towel that Ryan's girlfriend had used on my back, and although it was doused, I looked for a white corner to wipe my face off with. It was still dotted in blood that had mixed in with the tears and cigarette ash.
She soon returned with a spindle of bandage and I sat up again, as she began wrapping me. Martin left for his floor again and came back down quickly with a bottle of aspirin. They were beginning to predict my thoughts and I couldn't be happier. She tucked the tip of the bandage into the elastic strap of my boxers and began unwinding it, before wrapping up my lower torso and sealing my wounds. Martin hurried to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of water while still holding the aspirin. Ryan, who was sitting next to me, put an arm around my shoulder. I just noticed that now he too was covered in blood. She had the wrap around me and then proceeeded to rip off one end, before tying the two ends together to hold my guts in. Martin, having already opened the aspirin, handed me a couple pills and I tucked them in my mouth as I untwisted the cap on the bottle of water. I doubt I could've opened the aspirin at that moment, fucking child proof bottles. I peered at the ground where the lighter had fallen out of my mouth. It had deep teeth marks in it and I was glad like hell that I didn't bite through it and get a mouth full of lighter fluid. As I empted most of the water bottle into my mouth, some of it having dribbled down my chin, Martin headed down to the door and grabbed my bags.
"If you could... if... put my vegetables in the fridge," I murmered, but I was slipping out. He hurried to the kitchen, but within a moment returned with a much emptier bag. He set it in front of me and disappeared to the kitchen again. Reaching into the plastic sack, I found a gun and a wallet. I set them on the ottoman beside me and began explaining to Ryan, "I'm going to need someone to watch me through the night. I'll be fighting..." I stopped, to catch my breath. "I'll be fighting infection and I'll need to keep hydrated. Just... y'know," I said, before losing the ability to speak entirely as I layed back onto the blood soaked comforter. Ryan got off the edge of the couch and sat down on the ottoman, peering at me as his girlfriend slid open the closet. I guess she pulled out a blanket or two and draped it over me, before tucking a pillow beneath my head. I could only sleep on my right side, so I turned to the inside of the couch. My body was still wracked with pain, but I managed to dose off anyway.

I dreamed of my father, who had passed away ten years ago. He was standing in a field surrounded by butterflies and I ran to him. I was dressed in a v-neck shirt and my tight jeans- my usual uniform, and my hair was long and black and trailing over my face. I tried running to him, but the butterflies kept crowding my vision. I tried to reach him, but it felt like the butterflies landing on my shoulders and arms were pulling me back. And then he disappeared from sight completely and all I could feel was the burning below my rib cage. I peered down and there was a butterfly shaped red stain. Turning around again, I was in darkness and there was the man who I killed. We were at the corner of Jefferson and Sixteenth again and he held a gun to my face, but he held it by the barrel. I reached up and touched the handle of it... and it fired. And he fell on his side again on a pillow of blood.

When I woke up, I was soaked in sweat. It was already dusk of the next day, but I was alive. I pushed myself off the couch, but I felt sick as shit.
"Hey, you've been sleeping awhile," Martin said, and I quickly turned around to see him in a suit and sunglasses, peering at me while he smoked a cigarette and drank from a bottle of water. He flipped open his pack and bared the contents to me, a few remaining marlboro mediums. I grabbed one and brought it to my swollen lower lip. He lit it for me and I managed to croak out, "Water."
Ryan stepped out of the kitchen with a couple bottles and set them beside me. He was wearing tight, black jeans and a white t-shirt. They really had watched me through the night, and I could tell by the black circles around his eyes. I twisted open the cap quickly and swallowed down as much as I could. The pain was almost unbearable, but it didn't hurt as much as it had, since I actually made it through the evening.
"You okay, man?" he said cheerfully and it brought a smile to my lips as I wiped the water from my mouth and put the cigarette to my lips again.
"Yeah, I'm alive," I stuttered out. He grabbed the blanket and folded it up. It had caught a lot of the blood from the comforter, but it was a red and blue blanket anyway and still salvagable. The comforter beneath me wasn't. I edged myself to the end of the couch and he pulled up the comforter and crumbled it up, carrying it to the kitchen. The was a pink stain on the cushions beneath me. They could be flipped over though.
"So who did you kill last night?" Martin asked. I forgot I told him actually and almost stumbled over my words as I tried to explain myself.
"This guy... he tried mugging me at gun point. And he shot me, but then I shot him with his gun in the head," I finally ended up saying. He reached beneath his ass and pulled up a news paper. It was folded and the police blurbs were the only thing I could see. Some of them were circled, but there was one that I was certain was mine. It said, "Unidentified black male was found dead at the corner of Jefferson st. and 16th st. Discovered at 7:00 am by nearby hispanic woman walking dog. Pending further investigation."
"Great, I made the paper," I said, tossing it onto a chair next to the couch. I peered down to see that my bandages had also pinked a little, but it wasn't nearly as bad as my red shorts. I pushed myself off the couch and walked to my room as my roommates watched me dissappear down the hall. I stripped off my underwear and tossed them into the trash, before slipping into a pair of board shorts as I smoked my cigarette. I grabbed my white, leather coat and drew it around my shoulders as I snubbed the cigarette into the ashtray on my desk. As I left my room, I turned into the bathroom and began washing my hands. There were no towels in the bathroom anymore so I just shook them off, wiping them along my face and making sure to remove anymore traces of blood from my bare skin. This was followed by a brief attempt at pissing, but not much came out and what did was brownish in tint from dehydration.
As I returned, Ryan had retreated upstairs but Martin still sat there. I saw the gun and wallet on the table. I first picked up the wallet and flipped it open- it was ratty and old, and there was only about seventeen dollars in it. I pulled the money out and slipped it into my velcro pocket, before combing through the rest of the things it held. There was half a dominicks card, a sub shop punch ticket, a coupon for some energy drink, and an ID.
"Marco Falini," I said aloud, thinking that he didn't look very Italian to me. He was 44 years old and from Indiana. I dropped the wallet in the trash, all but his state ID which I put in my pocket with his cash. Then I picked up the gun. I flipped open the barrel... there were still four bullets remaining. Martin pulled off his sunglasses and peered at me with dark bags beneath his eyes as I turned to my room. After setting the gun in my dresser, I picked up my lighter off my desk and went out my back door and down my porch. I lived in the city so I didn't have much of a back yard, but I had enough of one. I found some lighter fluid next to a grill that my downstairs neighbor used a little bit during the summer and threw the ID to the ground, before sprinkling it with the lighter fluid. Then picking it up again, I lit my lighter to it and dropped it into the dirt as I watched the plastic catch flame. It smelled terrible and seemed to bend and wrinkle as it burned, so as the fire died I stepped on it, crumbling it into a million little pieces. I kicked some dirt ontop of it and headed back upstairs again, trudging slowly for the pain that still shook my body as night fell on the city.

I thought then that this might be the worst thing I've ever been forced to survive, but really... it was just the beginning. As I stared at the city skyline, I cried until the sun dissappeared on the horizon.