Disclaimer: Jay & Silent Bob are the intellectual property of Kevin Smith and View Askew Productions, and I have no intent to profit financially from the use of these characters.
EIGHT
Fucking john in this place is hideous. Light bulb flickering like it's trying to go out, sink backed up and full of filthy water, ribbons of toilet paper festooning every surface, badly drawn sex cartoons and misspelled graffiti all over the walls, and a stench that makes my eyes water. Hope the toilet flushes.
I hold my breath and hurry, and not just because of the glorious environment. Not too thrilled about leaving Jay out there to his own questionable devices, considering what happened yesterday. I know they wouldn't fuck with him inside the store, but with his limited attention span, I figure it won't be long before he wanders back out.
Probably just paranoid, but I'd hate like hell for him to end up with any more bruises while he's under my roof.
Take the time to wash my hands, trying not to overflow the fucking sink. Maybe I should say something to the clerk. No. He knows. And if he's anything like I was when I had the misfortune of working here, he doesn't care anyway.
Almost out of cigarettes, maybe I'll buy a pack on my way out. I scan the store on my way to the counter but Jay's nowhere to be seen. Look outside and take uneasy inventory of an empty parking lot, an empty sidewalk. My stomach drops into my shoes.
Can't stop myself breaking into a run, and I clip a display with my shoulder before I hit the door, bags of chips flying and the clerk cursing me.
I round the corner of the building and fuck if they aren't there in the same exact spot we were in yesterday, the big guy and just one of the others. They've got Jay pressed tight between them, the goon at his back and the big fucker at his chest. Asshole looks like he's whispering sweet nothings, his head obscuring Jay's face, his mouth nearly touching Jay's ear.
Jay's leg is twitching and there's something odd about the movement, something not right. And then I see what can only be blood, a bright red stain spreading down the front of Jay's pants.
Next thing I know the bastard and I are on the ground and I'm sitting on his stomach, one hand at his throat, fighting him to get the other one up there so I can fucking throttle him, fucking bastard, fucking asshole, he's gonna wish he'd never even seen Jay when I get through with him, if I don't fucking kill him this time, and I might, I just fucking might . . . fuck, my left hand is suddenly stinging, sizzling with pain . . .
Distracts me and the fucker upends me, rolls over and starts trying to wrestle me flat to the pavement. A flash catches my eye. Holy fuck, he's got a knife . . . as soon as I realize that's what it is, I see Jay stumbling toward us, bloody and pale. He kicks the asshole's hand and the knife skids ten feet across the pavement, into a pile of garbage.
I climb then, on top of and over the bastard, shove my knee into his throat, thoughts of killing him on hold for the moment, my only priority to subdue him and get to Jay. Because Jay is . . . Jay is . . . I don't want to acknowledge it.
He's on the ground, is what he is, sitting in a puddle of blood, knees drawn up, hands clutched to his side. Have to fucking get to him. Have to fucking do something.
Hear a voice shouting from somewhere and I realize somebody's calling the cops. Thank God, at least there's help coming.
Fucker slips away from me then, and runs. I don't turn to see where he's gone, shaking off the pain that's still singeing my hand, kneeling down in front of Jay, staring at his side, his hands, the blood that seems to be pouring out of him so fucking fast. I force myself to meet his eyes.
"Oh my God, Jay . . . he stabbed you." I don't know why I say it, words falling dumbly out of my mouth. Shaking violently, his breath coming too quick, he starts to look down. "No, don't." I'm afraid he'll lose it if he gets a look at all the blood. So much fucking blood.
"Sorry Bob sorry . . . " he says out of nowhere, and his hands suddenly fall away from his side. I jump, replace them with my own hand, trying to maintain some kind of pressure against the wound, for all the good it seems to be doing.
"Sorry for what?" I say. My heart shatters into a thousand pieces when he answers me.
"Shoulda listened . . . " he whispers. "Shoulda stayed inside . . . like you said . . . shoulda listened . . . " If I weren't two inches from his face, I wouldn't have heard him.
"Yeah, you should have, but I won't hold it against you." I swallow hard against the lump in my throat, sniff back a rush of tears. Blood keeps slipping out past my hand, so hot and so much of it. I try to focus on his face, his teeth chattering just a little. "It's gonna be ok, Jay, you'll be alright. Just hold on."
Siren grabs my attention and I jerk toward the sound. "You hear that?" I say, turning back to him, but he doesn't reply, panting, his eyes narrowed in obvious pain. Fuck them, where are they? The siren gets louder and finally there's an ambulance shrieking at the mouth of the alley, paramedics tumbling out.
They shove me aside but I hover as close as I can, blinking at the red and white lights bouncing off the bricks and trying to see what the fuck they're doing to him. Somebody's asking me questions and I rattle out one word answers until there's a sentence I don't understand.
"Sir, you're injured, let me have a look." They tug at my left hand, the one that's stinging, and I glance at it for the first time. There's a slash through it, lengthwise, from between my first and middle fingers all the way down to my wrist, blood spurting out of the cut at a rate that surprises me. Still, it's nothing compared to what's happened to Jay and I turn back to him while the medic tends to me.
Perhaps because of my own injury, they allow me to ride in the ambulance, and I'm grateful, relieved to be near him. They've got him wired and IV'd and masked, tucked onto a stretcher. He's still conscious but he looks delirious, eyes rolling, his head moving side to side.
His hand is right there within reach, trembling. I grab it and he looks at me. He starts to cry and I realize I'm already doing it, tears on my cheeks, choking back sobs.
Suddenly one of the paramedics is on top of him and I can't see why, can't see what's happened, until the ambulance takes a clumsy turn and everyone sways to the right. There's a tube down his throat now, bloody bubbles at the corner of his mouth, and they're squeezing air into his lungs with a bag.
Oh God. Please. Please. He's a kid. He's fourteen fucking years old.
One of the medics takes Jay's hand from mine and I feel a surge of insane anger at the loss of it. I touch his leg then, trying to maintain some kind of physical contact even though I can see that he's lost consciousness, unmoving, his eyes closed.
Ambulance stops and the doors fly open, winter wind whipping inside and pushing at the corner of the gray, blood soaked blanket that covers his legs. They pull the stretcher outside, pop the wheels to the ground and roll him toward the hospital.
One handed and slightly dizzy, I make my own way out of the ambulance. He's gone. They've carried him off somewhere behind closed doors, somewhere I can't follow. A medic drags me through the emergency room and into a cubicle where they pull me out of my trench and my shirt and cover me with an ill fitting gown.
Doctors, nurses and assorted hospital personnel rotate around me as they work on my hand and I ask everyone who gets within earshot if they can tell me anything about Jay. They brush me off but I don't stop. I'm babbling. Silent fucking Bob is babbling.
Nurse is injecting something into my arm. Goddamn her. No good to him now, if I ever was, half stoned on whatever they've given me. Can't seem to wrap my mouth around words anymore, so the babbling subsides.
Oh fuck. Uniforms. Police. Walking toward me, frowning, two of them. Suppose they've got questions. I remember I can't talk and a giddy laugh escapes me. Convenient disability. One of them gets in my face, harassing me, scowling, waving something. I follow with my eyes until the blur solidifies.
Ziploc bag half full of neatly rolled joints, except some of them aren't so neat anymore, bissected, weed scattered, near a puncture in the bag, which is now covered with Jay's blood.
Black hole opens up in my gut, threatening to swallow me from inside out, and I burst into uncontrolled, hysterical tears. He looks horrified, this cop, embarrassed and maybe sorry.
Oh Christ this is so bad. So so bad. I think I'm gonna throw up. No. No I won't.
Oh God Jay I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry I wasn't there, I'm so sorry I let this happen to you. What kind of fucking idiot am I? He's fourteen fucking years old, he's a goddamned kid, and I put him out in front of the fucking QuickStop to sell drugs? I got his ass kicked? I got him stabbed?
"I just wanted to fucking help him . . . " I sob, but it comes out as so much nonsense. I'm not talking to the cop, who's still leaning down in front of me, but to myself. Fucking help him. Probably helped him right into a pine box.
Cops leave. Doctor sews my palm back together. I sit here crying like a fucking baby, wallowing in guilt, wishing it was me bleeding to death and not him. Not Jay. Fourteen fucking years old, bruised and hungry but as tough as fucking nails, surviving just fine on his own, just beginning to trust me and FUCK ME, I wasn't there.
I wasn't fucking there.
Finally the tears run out, just as they finish stitching me up. Fuck I'm tired. Nurse wraps my hand in bandages and hangs my arm in a sling, mumbles something about blood loss and letting me sleep.
Hours pass. I know this only because there's a clock within sight. Lie here in an uneasy state of semi-consciousness, not really asleep but not really awake, thoughts never far from Jay and what's happened to him. Worrying. Afraid he's dead. Would anyone tell me if he was?