Daria clutched her upper left arm tightly, lips pulled back from her teeth in a grimace, face tight with suppressed pain. Her eyes roved over the stains embedded in the fiber of the fabric on which she sat. It stank of beer, pot and body odor, a strangely comforting combination. Half sprawled on the aged couch in the Lane basement, thick, sticky streams of blood running over her fingers to soak the sleeve of her grubby green jacket, Daria couldn't help it as a wry chuckle bubbled into the still air.
In all of Lawndale who else but she, Daria Morgendorffer, could manage to get shot for reading in a coffee shop? After all, she had not been giving a speech, leading a protest or doing anything so controversial. She had merely been reading a story.
The pounding of footfalls distracted her for a moment, then someone stood over her, speaking in a low, reassuring, if slightly panicked, voice.
"Okay, amiga. We're gonna get that bitch outta you, then everything's gonna be fine."
Movement, a slight disturbance somewhere around her right foot, then a large, strong hand peeling her fingers away from the wound in her shoulder. Something was tied tightly around her arm. It looked like a shoelace. Dazed, Daria looked up to see Trent standing over her, slightly behind Jane. His face was placid as ever, but his hands were clenched into tight fists. Daria wondered idly if he hated her, took in the bruise which smudged the skin beneath Jane's right eye and decided she didn't blame him if he did. Jane raised something in her left hand. Daria blinked when it caught the light and threw it into her eyes. The Exact-o-knife cut easily through sodden fabric and suddenly, Daria's jacket was minus one sleeve. Trent climbed onto the couch behind her, and she relaxed slightly when his strong, wiry arms circled her body and locked just below her sternum. A dull heat was shooting through her body in waves, sweat pouring from her brow and down her sides despite the glacial shudders wracking her body. When had it gotten so cold?
"Daria, look at me. Come on, I need to know you can hear me. Good. You're gonna be okay, amiga, I promise. You're gonna be okay! It's gonna hurt for a little while, but I promise you, when it's over, you'll feel a hellova lot better."
A thick cloth was placed between Daria's teeth. She had just time enough to muse on the afternoon's turn of events; the drunk jock, the panicked riot after the gun shot, the sickening crack as Timothy O'Neill's head struck the corner of the stage in a dead faint, all the culmination of Kevin's failed magic trick. Then the world was lost in a flood of white hot pain, kicking legs, jerking limbs and the feel of Trent's arms straining to keep her small body in place as Jane's knife dug through her flesh in search of a lead slug.
From far away, Daria heard someone screaming, a seemingly endless keening of pure, undiluted agony. What seemed like hours later there was a small, almost delicate metallic click and the screaming slowly tapered off. Somewhere through the fog came indistinct voices calling her name and a large, warm hand stroking her cheek as the world began to fade...
1/16/09