01-17-2014, 08:23 PM
Let go. No use keeping certain death waiting...
Point of View: Anna Nyman
With a shaky hand, I held the revolver that Derrick handed me moments before we piled into the SUV up, more or less making it look like I was actually aiming at the men on the other side as opposed to actually doing so. The loudmouth of the duo shouts something that comes across as little more than a jumbled mess, likely due to the fact that the amount of functioning brain cells he has is in the single digits. He reaches behind him, into his waistband. Terrible place to leave a gun, you common street urchin. My hand stops shaking momentarily, and I use this moment to line up my aim. Suddenly, I remember something a glance to my side, seeing a wide eyed Jessie staring back at me. Like clockwork, I freeze up. The shake returns, stronger than it previously was. Derrick's shouting back at him, again in words incomprehensible to me and it's at this point that it dawns on me; I'm having a panic attack. I'm being the polar opposite of calm: a frantic, hyperactive mess trying too hard to maintain a sense of composure that's long since evaporated.
Deep breaths, Anna. You can do this. Steady your hand. No, don't shake harder. Come on hand, do you not comprehend the concept of steadying? Wait a minute - I'm trying to have a mental conversation with my hand. Is this how Jessie feels? Because frankly, I feel like a fool. Trying to talk to inanimate objects as if they would have anything to say in the slightest, or whatever it is that they would say would be interesting in the slightest as opposed to "Hello! I'm your hand and I have some issue with the way you treat me some times. Is it really necessary to pleasure yourself multiple times in one day?"
Wait a second, I'm past thinking about an imaginary conversation with my hand: I'm actually conducting it. If this is what Jessie goes through everyday, I must commend her for having the strength to deal with this. I honestly don't think I could...
And the sound of a gunshot ringing through the bitterly cold air returns me to a much needed reality, given the grave situation unfolding around me at this very moment. Look alive, Anna. I finally manage to steady my damn arm and stare down the remarkably subtle iron sight of the gun, only to find that the loudmouth had moved in the time it took for me to prepare myself. No one there to blame for that but myself, I guess. I pull the trigger anyway, and the bullet whizzes through the air and collides with one of the crates. A small, albeit steady surge of grain spills from the bullet hole, and from another of the boxes in front of where the bullet had gone, I see a flinch. A twitch. A slight movement that betrays the secrecy whoever made it had, and ruins the safety of his hiding spot.
I take aim without knowing precisely where he is. If he screwed up once, he'll do it again. Sure enough, I'm right. Another twitch. The flash of a plain, white T Shirt against this dark, dreary backdrop. My arm swings out, right where the flash came from.
I lose my nerve, look up to the night sky instead of my target, before pulling the trigger. Bang.
"Ungh!" a voice - presumably belonging to the man in the white shirt echoes throughout the night, somehow overpowering the bursts of pistol fire, met on the opposition's side with something more impactful. More powerful, by the sound of it. Slower rate of fire, however.
Shotgun. Fuck.
My eyes dart to the ground, where sure enough, Jessie remains, pressed against the box for dear life. Then, it hits me. It, being two things.
One: I'm entirely out in the open. Which leads me to...
Two: I've been shot.
The blood's pooling on my arm, and though I can't see the hole, I can definitely feel it. I correct this blunder, slipping behind a box adjacent Jessie's.
"Yeah, take that you fucking scumbags!" Derrick's giddy voice yells from a few feet ahead. Though blocked by my choice of cover, I can picture he's throwing his hands in the air and smiling that wide, snakelike smile of his. Something's, off about him. I don't know what it is, but it's there. Oh, right. The wound that could very well kill me if left untreated.
Apply pressure. The blood soaks my hand immediately, leaving the entirety of my palm a warm, sticky mess.
I can hear something metallic skidding across the concrete. It's over, I presume. I stand up, slipping the revolver into my now bloodstained jacket's pocket and make my way over to the group.
"Oh my God," Jess whispers, teary eyes fixed on my hand.
"It's fine," I whisper back, unsure of whether I'm trying to calm her, or reassure myself. Oscar catches a glimpse and cringes, while Derrick stares at me and my covered wound and doesn't even flinch. No expression change. Something off about him, I remind myself. He straightens his tie, and barks orders at us once more:
"Diaz, Oscar: move this crate. We're taking it. You two?" he calls behind him, to the women he recognized. "You're coming with us."
"Fuck that!" the blonde one retorts.
"They aren't going to believe you if you're still breathing!"
"Ugh," she says, shaking her head. "I hate it when you're right." Both her and the dark haired one make their way through the prior No Man's Land over to us. Jessie takes one of the crate's handles; Oscar the other and on a count of three the two pull it upwards. They carry it this way for the duration of the walk to the SUV. I'm not sure if it will fit six. I guess time will tell, right?
***
Finally, we make it to the car. Jessie and Oscar load the crate into the trunk, and then her main focus turns to getting my wound treated better. Only problem; no one thought to bring a first aid kit. In my defense as someone who would've done this, I didn't expect Derrick to go full on psycho tonight.
She tugs the bottom of her shirt, and I can tell where this is going.
"No," I say.
"Take it," she responds.
"For Christ's sake, Jess: it's thirty eight degrees. I'm not taking your shirt."
"I don't care how cold it is. Take it."
She pulls off her shirt before I have a chance to stop her, leaving her to bear the temperature and wind in just a pair of jeans and a bra. I groan before removing my hand from the wound, which she wraps the shirt around. Derrick honks the horn of the car, and we hop in. She slips her arm around me and pulls me closer to her, minding my injury, as the SUV pulls out of its parking spot and begins to drive off into the night.
That is, until I hear the sound of police sirens.