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He giggled, although it was a low, pain-filled giggle.
“You are so much like Ruby.”
“How did you know my Granny?”
“She and I, we go way back.”
I looked better at the man with blood running all over my linoleum, giving me an excuse to break the bank and buy a new one. I needed to be distracted, to think about anything other than the fact that I was knuckles deep into his chest on my kitchen table. Instead of looking at the wound, where I could not see shit either way, I looked at his beautiful face.
This man couldn’t be older than thirty-five, maybe forty on a bad day, but he was damn gorgeous. Why are the hot men married, gay, or bleeding because they got shot doing something that was most certainly illegal?
He pressed his teeth together in a pained grin. “It’s not what you think,” he said as if he could read my mind.
“I wasn’t… I mean….” I stuttered.
“It’s fine. The mind should be free, right?”
“But how did you meet Granny? I don’t think you two hunted bad guys in the night together.”
Was there any memory of my Granny where she talked about a guy like this? I don’t remember Grandpa. He died during the war. She raised my mother all alone, never getting married again. So, what about the man here?
“Ruby was something, Yana. Maybe I am the bad guy.”
And again, he said my name as if he knew how I looked naked.
I couldn’t believe what I was doing. I washed my hands with Vodka, said a prayer, and pushed my middle finger into the wound in a last attempt to fish the bullet out.
“It’s deep. I can’t reach it.”
He had passed out. I panicked and turned my back to his still form sprawled out on the kitchen table. With shaking hands, I pulled drawers open and searched for anything long enough to reach the bullet. I picked a fork that had a long handle. With the fork in one hand and the phone in the other, I leaned over the guy’s bleeding chest.
“This has to work.”
I bit the inside of my cheek so hard my mouth flooded with the coppery taste of my own blood.
The first attempt failed. I felt as if I had pushed the bullet in deeper, but somehow, after bending the fork, I managed to get a hold of it and pick it out. After the bloody thing was out, I filled the hole with Vodka.
I’ve seen bullet wounds before, and a man shot through his lungs should not be alive, at least not without surgery and the best-equipped hospital. Yet this guy was still breathing. I checked his vitals. His pulse fluttered under his skin, his eyes moved under his closed eyelids, and his breath was not as labored as before. Was it possible he was getting better?
As I looked at the bullet hole, I noticed the bleeding had stopped, and the flesh was knitting itself together.
What the fuck!
I couldn’t believe such a medical wonder. I used a fresh paper towel to clean the wound. The bleeding stopped completely.
Fuck!
I leaned closer and watched the flesh grow in front of my eyes. There was nothing, not even a scar.
“That can’t be,” I mumbled and checked the other bullet hole where I picked the bullet from. It was also closed. There was nothing left for me to clean. Pressing my index against it, I could not believe it when I felt the muscular tissue against my hand.
“This is impossible.”
With the candle in my hand, I leaned closer and listened to his heartbeat. It was solid and steady.
I examined the last two bullet holes. My face was so close to his that I could taste his breath.
His eyes flew open. They were not red anymore but green like fresh moss growing in spring on tree bark. A smirk touched his eyes.
