Stay Alive

How is it that you never noticed the flecks of glitter in the popcorn ceilings until now? The shadows of the fire dance on the ceiling as you lay here like an idiot. You let such a detail of your own home, the largest piece of your miserable legacy and the only thing of significance you will leave to Lisa when you pass, slip by you until now. Not that she would ever set foot here after what you said at her wedding. Well you are in big, big trouble now. That immense pain from the right side of your chest? Earned. You let him in, Samuel. You let him get the drop on you. You—wait! Don’t move. Don’t breathe, hold it. Ignore the pain—shush. Of course you want to cry and whine, but just stop; he’s here.

Okay, you’ve been in this type of situation before. Don’t you remember who was there keeping you safe, taking control, calculating your next move, telling your body to shut up and listen instead? It was the brains of this meatsuit you call your body. Now it is happening again and yours truly will come through just like always. You will be fine. Well, you weren’t so severely injured the last time you needed extra help to survive, but you still escaped the enemy with your life. That’s what you are really good at, isn’t it? Surviving and running away.

He is ignoring you and rummaging through this part of the house now. What does he want? All you keep in your end table’s junk drawer are ketchup packets. He must be looking for something valuable like your phone. Your phone! Where is it? If you want to survive, you better pray he can’t find it. But you had it when he shot you in the chest. You were crying over baby pictures of her when he came in. You’re such an idiot. “Hey, who are you?” is what you mustered as a defense when he came into your living room. He showed you exactly who he was with that flash of light and the bullet that’s still inside you. Now your poor little overstressed brain is the only thing that can save your bacon.

What? You need to exhale? Fine, he’s looking through the coffee table drawer and distracted now. Exhale the carbon dioxide buildup slowly through the mouth. Don’t make a sound. Now make a small test inhale very slowly through your nose—if he notices then you’re dead. Great! You can breathe through your left nostril without alerting your attacker. Don’t get any cute ideas though. If you try to grab his gun, you will just look like a stumbling fool before he shoots you again. Like most of the opportunities you have been given, you missed your chance for heroics. He already thinks you’re dead so let’s work with that for now. You got lucky that your stupid loose polyester shirt is saving you from your sucking chest wound, so let’s not push your luck any further.

Remember your survival training. Pay attention and gather information. Time is limited by your energy and oxygenated blood. Ignore the stress and adrenaline—focus! How are your senses? Your eyes need to appear shut for now but you can peek through the tears swelling up. You can see his shadow cast on the ceiling from the fire. Your ears still work enough to hear him shoving your belongings around nearby, but the steady ringing from the point blank, indoor gunshot is painful. His ears are probably ringing too. Can that be used to our advantage? All you taste is blood but c’est la vie, we’re not tasting our way out of this. Can you smell anything past the rush of snot and blood that is currently clogging your right nostril? Okay good! Cordite from the shot, burning oak wood from the fireplace, and the stifling body odor from the attacker—you can sense him without making any visible movements, perfect.

What about your body? No, don’t move anything yet, but could you move enough to save your sorry self after he leaves? He’s clinking bottles together in the kitchen liquor cabinet now, so wiggle your toes. Fingers next, shuffle them a little. Great, now just—

Crying? Really, now? You are just going to lay here and die, aren’t you. You were meant for so much more, but instead you got stuck. Now look at you. Your tombstone will read, “Here lies Samuel Shirts, Veteran, Father, Loser.” Your obituary will be just as good: “Could not even make a phone call to save his life. Really great at disappointing everyone, especially his daughter he never even spoke to one last time. He just gave up like he always did when things got tough.” It could go on longer, listing way more failures. Your brain is a genius at that after all, or close enough to it. Top 1% in all state tests, but you squandered it all.

Your daddy was tough on you? Your mommy never stood up for you? Who cares, work harder. That’s what the posters at the gym say, right? You tell everyone else that you joined the Army because you wanted a way out of South Bend as fast as possible. You don’t even flinch telling that lie anymore. The truth is you wanted to die, to be given a purpose, or both. At least you got some skills from it. You can save a life or take a life, but all you know how to do is screw things up when it comes to living your own.

Never bothered to learn how to communicate with your wife or consider what she was feeling. That doctorate in psychology gathering dust on the mantle above the fireplace ever since you shuttered your practice was your ex-wife’s final gift to you. That’s what it takes to get you to finally do something, right? A swift kick in the teeth motivates you to figure out what you were always capable of learning. So you learned to practice empathy and analyze the thoughts of others professionally after the divorce. As usual, you were too late to fix the mess you made. And of course you didn’t just mess up your own life and your ex’s. No, your daughter suffered from your laziness too. Too busy satisfying your own curiosity or working yourself to the bone to play with her as a little girl, and too cowardly to break the court order after the divorce. “Assassin,” your ex described your occupation to the judge. You hated her for those lies, but the damage was done. Then after she grew up, Lisa invited you to her wedding and you had the temerity to voice opposition to her union, as if your stupid opinion was worth—

Slam!

That was the door. Is he still in the house? Did he leave? This is all your fault. You got distracted and lost track of where the intruder is because you can’t control your thoughts. Can’t smell him or hear him. He must have left. Okay, seize this moment and get out of here. You have been shot before; this is nothing. Well, it’s something. Actually, it is the worst pain you have ever felt. Go ahead and die then. Just wait to bleed out, quitter. Or maybe quit being a worm and move! Good, move your head around. Look around the room. What is available to help?

The knocked over chair from when you fell back into it, no. Glass of water and lamp on the small light stand table beside the chair, no. Blanket on the floor next to the mantle, maybe. Why? Are you going to be putting a tourniquet on your chest so everyone can laugh at your dead body? Or maybe you will use it to sleep here on the floor until you bleed out, Sam? Ignore the blanket and keep looking. Pictures of Lisa in frames on the mantle, no, focus! Where is your phone? That’s the best ticket out of here, but he might have stolen it. Can’t be sure. Find another way.

“Another way,” means get up and move, Samuel. Go on, lift your head up. If you get to a sitting position, you can see things better and adjust to a crawl. At least do something more useful than the Egyptian sarcophagus pose you are doing now. Go on, contract your abs and—ARGH! No! Do not do that again. That’s fresh warm blood gushing out of your entry wound, buddy. New plan: can you yell for help?

“Hel—nnngh!” Stop gasping, you sound like an idiot. That was some weak yelling. How about a real yell. “HE—gaw!” No use, too weak to holler for help. Understandable since one of your lungs is filling with blood. Now your only option is to be seen. Make it outside and hope someone notices your sorry bloody body—someone other than the guy that shot you of course.

So move! What are you waiting for? Push your legs against the floor and get to the door. You can open it with your belt, or maybe sit up enough for it. But you have to get there first. Do it! Both legs together, heels on the deck, and push! “Grrrgh!” Oh stop your whining. Another one, let’s go! “Grrrgh!” Okay, progress, that’s good. Just a few more pushes! “GrrrrreeeeAGH!!”

Uh oh. This might be it. You don’t have anything left. No no, just stay still. It really is over. Better load up those prayers you were saving because this is it. Sorry Samuel, that’s the best you can do now. The damage is too bad, and you gave it your actual best shot. There’s nothing more that you—

Bzzt bzzt.

Your phone! It’s still here, somewhere near the mantle. Quick, go back and get it! Yes, obviously going this way was a mistake but that’s what you do—make mistakes, I mean. Now do the other thing you do and learn from them, but this time before it’s too late. Go get that phone! Pull with your feet. Push with those hands. Okay, maybe left hand only. You should probably keep pressure on that wound anyways, or at least keep the polyester in place. Come on, almost there. Where is it exactly? You heard it by the mantle, but where? Sweep for it with your hand. Find it. Find it!

Under the blanket, of course! It must have slid under there when you fell. Okay, grab it and pull up the—what do you mean it’s too heavy? Well use your left hand, dummy! Roll and reach, come on! This is your only shot at surviving this; either you reach across your chest with your left hand or you rotate your whole body around to reach it from your left side. Just do it, come on already!

“Nyaa—gaargh!” Got it! Okay, wipe your blood off the face camera and unlock it. Not working; wipe it again. It must be because you’re so ugly, or maybe you are just smearing blood around. Just put in the PIN to unlock it. It’s your daughter’s birthday, you sentimental fool. 1-0-1-0-7-4. Got it. Okay, phone icon, and 911, call.

“Hello, Emergency Dispatch, what is your emergency?”

“Sho—sh—” eugh! eugh! eugh! — "shot.” Oh great, are you going to stutter and cough yourself to death after getting this far?

“I understood that you were shot. Is the shooter there now?”

“Don’”—eugh!—"Don’t nnngh” —eugh! 

“You don’t know, okay, I have your address from your phone and am dispatching police and paramedics. Where on your body were you shot?”

“Ches—ss—sst.”

“Okay, stay on the line and I will offer as much help as I can. For first aid treatment of a chest wound, it is important to know if it is a sucking chest wound. If you have a hole that is sucking in air, try to find some tape or plastic to cover the hole. This goes for both an entry hole and an exit hole if there is one.”

“Mm hmm.”

“If you are able to reach anything plastic and tape it to your chest, that will prevent air from entering. It may be difficult, but this could save your life… on the way… help is coming… stay on…”

…

“Eighteen, nineteen, twenty… twenty-six, twenty-sev—Huh!”

Wake up!!!

Eugh! eugh! eugh! “Than—” nnngh—eugh! eugh! eugh!

“Sir, glad to have you with us. Take it easy, you are lucky to be alive and you are not out of the woods yet. Sergeant Jayson Hendrix with Fort Wayne PD. My partner and I cleared the house. Whoever did this is long gone. Paramedics were just cleared in. They will take you to the hospital. We will talk more when you are able to.”

How considerate of him to let you rest before finding out how pathetically little you know of the shooter. Gaunt, aged 18-58 years, rugged face that has seen too much weather, unkempt long blonde hair to about his red tank top over his shoulders, body odor that would kill a charging warthog in its tracks, and what looked like a .38 revolver. He better wait in line though. You have to call her. She deserves so much better than what you have given her so far in life. She deserves—

“Sir, my name is Daniel Tocheim, how are we doing today?”

“Well—GAARGH!”

That paramedic is good. Used the oldest trick in the book on you. Distracting you while they do something that’s going to hurt. That’s how they trained you to render first aid in the field, in any case. They are professionals so let them tape up your wound and intubate you. They don’t want to hear your old man nonsense anyways. Save your words for Lisa. You owe her a call, especially after this. She needs to know the truth. She needs to know that you didn’t want her to marry anyone that reminded you of you. She deserves it so that she may finally have peace. What words to use? How about starting with “Hello” and going from there.

Her birthday… the phone icon… L-i-s-a… call.

Brrrrrrrrrt. Brrrrrrrrrt. Brr—“He—Hello. Dad? Dad, is that you? I’ve waited—it’s been a long time.”

Idiot. You can’t talk with a tube down your throat.