Some blokes are just built differently, I guess.
The dirt tastes like oil and petrol. It's gritty under my cheek. Something wet is spreading under my belly. I don't like that.
I like even less the elephant sitting on my chest. I can't open my lungs, can't catch a breath.
I'm trying not to panic, but I’m not succeeding. This could be bad. There are sounds, but it's hard to make sense of anything—the adrenaline can't mask the crushing mass of excruciating agony searing through me from where stupid God kicked me in the back.
Wait…
Right.
I’ve been shot.
Again.
Go me.
Woo.
Hands drag me, which doesn’t feel entirely wonderful.
Voices overlap.
Hands do things.
"Ca—can't…b-br—" I rasp. "C-can't…breathe."
“We gotcha, kid,” a gruff voice says.
A knife blade rakes up my back, the dull side cold on my skin as it slices open my shirt. Something is pressed to my skin. I hear the hollow rip sound of a tape roll opening, something sticky touching my back in four lines to make a big square.
I'm rolled to my back, which tears a gagging scream out of me, even though I’m trying like fuck to keep the sounds on the inside. Not that I can breathe to scream very loud, mind you.
Fuck, this sucks. I’ve taken some shots before, but this is bad.
There are different kinds of not being able to breathe, and they're all terrible in their own ways.
Getting the wind knocked out of you in a sparring match is level one. Sucks, but passes quickly.
Then there's being forced to hold your breath longer than you really can, and that's level two.
Actually drowning is level three.
That really fucking sucks. Zero out of ten, do not recommend.
Then there's taking a slug to the vest; that's level four—avoid at all costs. Horrible. Leaves terrible bruises at best, breaks ribs at worst. Negative ten out of ten.
Then, apparently, there's getting extra holes put in your chest by some rather inconsiderate arsewipes. Negative infinity out of ten. Really, really, really do try to avoid it. Take it from me.
Things are all dark and blurry, which doesn’t bode well for my future, but I see Bryn's face looking tweaked and upset, tears flowing.
"Oi, oi," I grit out, looking at her. "None o’ that."
She hovers over me, a beautiful, brown-skinned angel. Her puppy brown eyes are terrified for me. "Don't talk, Rush. Save your breath."
"Fuck that," I gasp, as whoever is patching me up presses a sheet of transparent plasticky something to my chest over the unwanted holes. Tape covers the edges, and just like that, a seal is created, and I can draw a breath. I mean, I’m still shot thrice in the fucking lungs, so I'm not, like, fine, but at least that damned elephant has gone off my chest.
"Rush," Bryn whispers. "Fuck."
