by Evan Carden

Created on: October 21, 2007

I'm bleeding on the floor. I feel a dull anger about that. It took me three days to put in the floor. I know my anger is misdirected. I should be angry at the man who shot me, who took my wallet and said he was coming back for my television.

I never imagined it would be like this. I imagined if I ever was shot I'd react like a movie star, I'd patch myself up while making jokes. Instead I just lie here, watching the blood spread out across the floor. I'm unable to muster the strength to roll over. No, that's a lie; I don't want my last words to be a lie. I could roll over; I could reach the phone on the counter and call the police, they'd save me. I don't.

I can feel the life draining out of me and I don't do anything about it. I hear voices, pitched so only I can hear them. My mother implores me to get up, to call the police. My father's voice orders me to rise. I hear the voice of familial love telling me not to let them find my corpse on the floor. Fear just screams impotently, covering the other voices. I just lie there, listening to the voices. It seems oddly appropriate that I should pass from this world to the sound of screaming.

A voice cuts through all the other noise, almost whispering in my ear, commanding me to get up, that I will not die like an animal, like a coward, bleeding to death on the floor.

I hear him coming back, through the commands of my pride. He's a small man, I remember that from the brief glimpse of him I caught before he pulled the trigger. There's a knife on the counter, not three feet from where I'm lying. I was making chili, the knife is already red with blood, a little more won't hurt.

I see his feet walking past me toward the living room, toward my television. I lie there, mustering my strength and wait.

Finally after what seems like an eternity, he returns, awkwardly carrying the television, my television.

I lurch to my feet and grab the knife. He turns quickly, dropping the television. The knife drove into his chest easily. The look of shock on his face is almost comical. I twist the knife and he collapses, taking my knife with him.

Blood covers my hands, but I ignore it, staggering to the phone and telling the operator to send police and EMTs. I collapse slowly to the floor, my back braced against the counter.

If I survive, I'll tell people that it was love, or hope, or truth, justice and the American Way, that made me fight. I know that it was pride, sheer, unadulterated arrogance, the refusal to believe that my life would end like this that made me fight.

I have to live with that knowledge.

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