BLOOD
When we came home, he insisted on rebandaging the wound.
When I protested, I found all six feet- two of my friend standing between me and my bedroom.
He said not a word as he tied it up, but I saw the pain in his eyes as he wiped up the blood and gently cleaned the bullet shot. The haunted look from Evans attack had still not disappeared.
I tell him again and again that it was not his fault, that it couldn't be helped, that I chose to fellow him, that he is not to blame.
I don't think he believes me.
This one is a bit angsty, I'm afraid.