Bullet with Butterfly Wings
Disclaimer--Don't own anything. And I most certainly did steal this title from the Smashing Pumpkins song of the same name.
I guess I'm pretty much used to gunshot wounds by now.
And I'll admit, the searing bite of the bullet was oddly comforting, in a nostalgic sort of way. It reminded me of winter nights and beautiful girls, over-crowded crack houses and belligerent gang members, and the faint strains of auld lang syne playing distantly in the background.
But Maxie isn't used to them. Not with the way she's poking and prodding at the wound, as if it's some sort of science experiment gone wrong. I have to struggle to keep my irritation in check, and each time I feel like shouting at her I have to remind myself that I'm a bastard and she's just a poor scared kid. And that I'm fucking lucky she even decided to help me. I'm fucking lucky, period.
She's sworn to me that her house is empty, that her dad (the goddamn police chief!) and sister wouldn't be back until much later tonight. So for now I can breathe easy, which is actually pretty hard to do when I'm trying to talk Maxie into extracting the bullet. At least she managed to curb the flow of blood.
She finally manages to pull our shiny little nemesis out of its temporary home, and I congratulate her as blood drips onto the newspapers that I insisted she lay out on her bedroom floor.
"That was-wow. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?" Her face is flushed, the hair that has escaped from her knotted ponytail sticking to her forehead. She's crouched on the floor below me, staring at the source of my recent misery, clutching it between her pink-painted fingernails.
"Nothing I won't live through." I say, and I can tell by the hurt look in her eyes that she tries vainly to hide that she's caught my mocking tone. I feel vaguely ashamed and awkwardly ask her to pass me the gauze so I can finish bandaging my wound.
"So like, can I keep this?" At first I'm not sure what she's referring to until she waves it around in the air in front of me as if it were some sort of tiny aircraft.
"Uh, sure, if you want. But why would you want to?"
"I don't know. It's just kind of cool, I guess. Like, how it was inside you, you know?" I must make a face at this because she rushes to correct herself. "Not that I think it's cool that you got shot."
"Fuckin' A." I mutter. Then, more loudly: "You know, you're a good little doctor there Maxie. Thinking about going to medical school?" I'm only joking but she blushes anyway, ducking her head.
"Oh, I don't get marks like that. My sister does. She'll probably end up being like a scientist or a lawyer or the president or something."
I laugh, and she smiles ruefully. I like this kid.
Not that she's much of a kid. I try to think back to what she's told me. Seventeen? Eighteen? Why did it matter? It's not as if I was worried about her being legal. Although she was damn pretty. Like any guy, I've always had a soft spot for blondes. Especially ones who don't mind me camping out in their bedrooms while I'm on the run from the cops.
Her room is so girlish, it's almost comforting. The pink curtains, the canopied bed. Her dresser is cluttered with makeup and crumpled tissue. The scent of hairspray and something I can't quite define lingers in the air, reminding me, in some sort of remote and unclear way, of my mother. A wave of homesickness overcomes me, and I'm surprised because I can't remember that ever happening before. For me, home had never really been where the heart was.
And, suddenly, I'm drained of all energy. The adrenaline, which has kept me going throughout the past few hours, has dissipated and the blood loss has started to take its toll. I feel as though I could sleep for a hundred years.
Maxie's looking at me uncertainly.
"I don't think it's good for you to sleep on the floor. With your, um, your injury. So you can sleep in my bed and I'll sleep on the floor."
She's right, of course. My body cringes at the idea of sleeping on that thin carpet. But the girl's already done so much for me, and I'd feel like a jerk for stealing her bed.
"Okay, well Maxie that's really sweet of you, but don't worry. My body can take it."
No I can't! It screams. I tell it to shut up. And Maxie and I work out a compromise.
So I resign myself to sleeping beneath a flowered bedspread, on pillows that have smudges of lipstick on them and smell faintly like apple shampoo. And Maxie settles in beside me, and it's as though I'm in a whole damn orchard. I can feel the tenseness of her body through the mattress, and I reach out to touch her arm briefly.
"Don't be afraid." I whisper. "I didn't do what they're saying I did." I don't know why her opinion is so important to me. Maybe because she's the only person I have left. And for some reason, that doesn't seem like such a bad thing right now.
"I know, Zander." Her words float by me in the dark, tickling the edges of my eyelids like butterflies. "I believe you."
I hear the butterflies beating their wings in the darkness. And if I look hard enough, I can see them. So many colours-emerald green, marine blue, wicked crimson, juicy mouth-watering orange. It's absolutely beautiful.
I fall asleep, my hand resting inches from hers.
I'm not afraid.
-end-