December 16, 1828

. . . I had shut my eyes tight. I awaited some sort of scream or the sound of something fairly heavy collapsing to the floor, but nothing happened. I did not want to open my eyes. I had never, ever shot anyone before and my stomach quelled as I thought of Fagin, slumped against the fireplace, bleeding to death - or worse - already dead! Why had I done it? Why had I let my anger get the better of me? I remember praying to God for mercy and forgiveness, "Please, Lord, it was a mistake. . ."

I decided that I would have to open my eyes. When I did, I saw that Fagin was leaning against the fireplace. I let go of the gun and it dropped to the floor with a small thud. Then, I walked over towards him.

He was grasping his left arm. Bright, red blood was leaking from between his fingers in rivulets as he tried to stifle it. He was breathing heavily and shaking. He said not a word, but continued to stare in the opposite direction at the fire. This gave me the creeps. I imagined that he was probably thinking that that was were he would end up. An angel of the Devil headed for the fires of Hell. He accepted his fate and, therefore, did not even try to change it. Feeling a great pang of guilt, my thoughts went back to an earlier memory.

An image now came back to me. An elderly gentleman and a young man sitting in a bar. The young man was asking me whether I had a gun. I answered, "Yes, I have one. Not on me now though!" The elderly gentleman simply stared at the table and made no other sign. He then looked back up, smiled, and spoke, "Now, Bill, my dear, you almost met your match!" He was right - only, I was worse; I had done what I had always promised never to do. Fagin had sat patiently there at the table; not caring that I had a gun or fearing that I would use it. I now found tears streaming down my face.

None of the boys had come running down the stairs. They were probably too frightened to come and investigate. I was glad of that. This was a terrible situation - not one for children to view.

I bent closer to Fagin and he turned slightly; further away from me. He did not yell out for aid; he just stayed there, shaking with his eyes closed. I pulled a handkerchief out of my coat pocket. Forcing his bloody hand from the wound, I tried to stop the bleeding using it. I then replaced his hand back on top to hold it on the wound while I led him over to my room. I told him to lie down on the bed and he did so without much response, "I'm sorry," I whispered. Fagin closed his eyes and sighed, "I don't know why I did it. Forgive me." No answer.

I rushed back into the kitchen and grabbed several blankets from a drawer. I also grabbed a basin and filled it with cool water. When I returned he opened his eyes.

"I'm going to remove the handkerchief and wash your arm," I told him. Fagin removed his hand as an answer. I pulled off the handkerchief and fresh blood began to pour out. I washed the blood of as best as I could with a rag and then turned my attention to the blankets. I folded a couple of them and stacked them under his arm to elevate it above the rest of his body. I then covered him with the other blankets to keep his temperature from dropping.

"I'm going to go get a doctor," I tried to say this in an assuring tone, "I will be back really soon. Don't worry, everything is under control."

I walked out of the room and then broke into a run. I headed down the the street. I now realized that I had no clue where the local doctor was. I saw a woman and ran up to her.

"Do you know where I can find a doctor? It's an emergency!" I could hardly get the words out; I was panting so badly.

"Gregder Road. Two blocks that way and then on your right," she pointed the direction and I headed off immediately.

I found the office and, finding the door locked, began to bang on it in a frenzy. A middle-aged man, wearing spectacles and holding a candle, opened the door a second later. He did not wait for me to explain, but grabbed his bag right away and said, "Lead me."

I led him and found out that he was actually a faster runner than I was. He ran a bit ahead and I called out directions to him. Between directions, he asked me for other information, "How much blood?" he yelled back at me.

"About . . . a good amount," I panted out.

"Is he unconscious?"

"He wasn't . . . while . . . I was there. That's the place . . . up ahead."

The doctor went right in and I followed. After a we got to the end of the passage, I led him the rest of the way into my room.

He bent down over Fagin and grabbed his wrist. I waited.

"Pulse is a bit slow . . ," he fumbled in his bag, "I need to get that bullet out," he pulled out what looked like a pair of extra-long tweezers. He poked them into the hole while pulling the skin apart with his other hand. I closed my eyes; I felt light-headed.

"There it is. I won't be bleeding him, he's lost enough as it is. I'll just put some alcohol on this and stitch it up." he continued to work for about half an hour.

"Will he be alright?" I asked.

"I'd say so," the doctor replied, "he just needs some rest. Keep him warm and get me if anything strange happens. He should be fine in a couple of days. Oh," he paused by the door, "you'll want to report this to the police, of course."

I nodded, "How much do you want . . ."

He placed his hand on my shoulder; "Free of charge," he said and left.

My mind wondered back to the boys upstairs. I decided I would not go up there to explain. That could wait until morning. They would be safe and in beds for the night.

I now put my energy into making some chicken broth. Fagin always kept a jug of it on hand for times when he was less inclined to cook. I heated some up and took it to him.

I set a bowl-full down on the night stand and moved a chair over next to the bed. Fagin opened his eyes and glanced at me, "I made you some broth. Want some?" I dipped my spoon into the substance and held it near his lips. Surprisingly, in my mind, he took it. I gave him several spoonfuls, "I'm sorry. I feel awful about this. It wasn't an accident, I know, but it was a terrible mistake."

Fagin nodded, "I had hopped so, my dear." And with that he went to sleep.

Cheerio! I feel so much better now! Fagin is alright! Good thing Tom has bad aim! Please review! - Elaine Dawkins