The following is an excerpt from chapter I of Three Blind Mice – a pulpnoir novella I wrote a few years ago during a lonely weekend spent in Pittsburgh. I will be posting snippets of each chapter throughout the month leading up to the launch of Three Blind Mice as an ebook – available on kindle and the like. But that won’t be until later this summer, when I can gather together the appropriate funds. So, meanwhile, enjoy a taste of chapter I and the beginning of a very personal story.
She couldn’t tell if it was the wind, the foot of snow, or the twenty minutes worth of fresh tears that made it feel colder than usual, but something had.
As she hugged herself for warmth what had just happened replayed in her head – thinking of how she wanted to respond, what should have been said. Always should have done – never did.
It took the sting of the restaurant’s back door against her palms to get back over the line from hysterical. Which then caused her to think again, how the sadness had, in some way, taken over. It was then she leaned against the dumpsters to let off the strain on her feet and wiped the tears, she had wiped from her face, across her apron. A few deep breaths brought her back on track, and the marquee parking lot lights going out made it comfortable.
She exhaled, sighing in relief.
Before her breath formed a cloud -
The sound of stumbling rushed up to her quicker than she could lift her head from her chest, and there he was, stumbling down the hill and out of the descended darkness. Transfixed, she watched the young man, dropping to one knee, tumble the last few yards down the hill, ending with the heavy thud of his back against the trash dumpster. The impact of him against the metal snapped her focus into what was going on, as an injured, bleeding young man lay at her feet.
He moaned – shallow – rolling over onto his side. The suction sound of his shoulder coming off the ground, muddy with blood, caught her attention long enough to ignore the young man sitting up.
She could see into his face, pale and far off – his blue eyes dark and tired. The bullet wound was obvious, having missed his jacket, shredding through his tee shirt, allowing the wound to bleed – steady – between his shoulder and his heart.
Hesitating, she froze – not in panic – but indecision. A million thoughts presented themselves in that brief moment, and she was overwhelmed with the decision.
Groaning under his breath, he attempted to get up, an old metal trash can his leverage. It buckled, before he was to his knees, slamming him back to the ground, hard against the good shoulder.
She gasped, holding it a few seconds longer than she would have – staring at him as he clutched at her leg.
His hand was covered in blood.
“Oh my god.”
That’s all she could say, all she could think of – watching him struggle to a sitting position. It displayed him there – the light from above the door – dim as it was. He managed to look into her eyes, picking his head up.
“Help me.”
She bent down.
–
The trailer’s front door waffled against the inside wall, echoing into an otherwise quiet night.
She was shaking – high from the moment, and ready to fall over – but used a few deep breaths to help him through. He fell to the carpet, giving her shoulders a chance to stop burning, and she stepped over him on her way to the kitchen. While soaking a towel in water her sleeve wiped away the layer of sweat on her face so her eyes wouldn’t sting while looking back over her trailer’s breakfast bar, into the living room.
He’d made it most of the way into the living room when a surge of energy came over him, giving a chance to sit up against the couch and remove his blood splattered leather jacket.
“Hope you have a first aid kit.” He stumbled under his weight getting up. “Otherwise I’m fucked.” And he caught himself on the window, ripping up the blinds. She rushed with the towels, and got to him before he lost his balance enroute to the hallway.
“I do.” He turned and fell into her arms once she let him know she was there. Catching his weight he balanced himself. “You need to sit down.” But he ignored her and struggled to lift from her chest, turning to continue down the hall. He left a large blotch of blood on her, as he left – so much so she could feel it soak through her shirt, running down her stomach.
“Jesus.” Trying to convince herself he would be ok, as much as what she was going to have to do to see he would be. He disappeared into the bathroom as she broke off into her bedroom, looking for what they needed.
As she flurried through cloths in her dresser the portable phone caught her attention and she slowed down, thinking of it – of how he’d made her promise not to call the police when she’d found him. He said it as if his life depended more on that then the mock surgery she was about to perform. It was as she rested on the image of it – removing a bullet – that her hands felt the first aid kit, wrapped in a tangle of socks.
Hands still shaking she made her way back down the hallway, holding her breath.
He was half in the tub, slouched over its cold porcelain when she turned the corner into the bathroom. She couldn’t see any movement, and bent down to help, dropping what she was carrying.
He had already removed his shirt while she was in the bedroom, and lost his energy trying to get in the tub.
Touching him, he gave a jerk as if surprised someone was there, and assisted her in flipping into the tub. She looked down and saw the tub already filling with blood, still draining from the wound. He slid under it and rocked down lower in the basin of the tub, as she thought of what would happen if he died there.
Her eyes fixated on the wound, clean and crisp against his pale skin, weeping blood at a steady rate. A clammy hand touched her shoulder and got her attention, and just before he spoke – while she froze, mouth open, and shaking – she could see the black ink on his wrist – it said ‘Vertrauen’.
He looked deep into her eyes, welling with tears held in, and broke the moment.
“Sorry about your shirt.” He allowed her to blink twice and look at him. “Give me the first aid kit.” His voice was shallow and weak but still commanding.
She turned around and tossed aside his blood soaked shirt, grabbing the small first aid kit. Giving it to him, it was opened with a quick rip that strewed its contents across his lap. As she rooted around the tub for the bandage he voiced in over her frantic breathing.
“Here,” He grabbed her hand and placed it over the wound. “Hold it tight.” He winced as she applied pressure, causing her to let up. “No damn it!” It frightened her but he was back guiding her hand to the wound. “Fuck me. Hold it.” He slammed her hand against it again. “Push. Hard.” She felt the squish against her palm and closed her eyes, pushing forward with force, stopping the flow. He labored to find what he needed, and it was some time before he handed her the small pair of tweezers from inside the kit.
“Here.” She could feel how cold his hands were as she took them. “It shouldn’t be too far in – go slow.” He was gasping for air after every few words and was sweating beads against his forehead.
All she could do was shake her head no, over and over, the flush of sweat on her face like a waterfall.
“You have to.” He had to compose himself before going on, at the edge of consciousness. “I won’t fit in your trash can.”
It made her laugh, popping against the night’s tears and making her feel more comfortable with the idea.
She shook her head again. “I can’t.”
“You can.” He tried to look at her, but more and more his vision blurred. “Who else?”
There was silence for a moment, her one hand holding the wound tight, the other held out with tweezers gleaming in it. They both sat there as she decided what to do, and as her hand came up from the wound and was followed with a spurt of blood she realized what that was.
Her hands trembled as the tweezers got closer to the wound. She fixed her eyes on it, imagining them to be unable to look anywhere else, and the edges of her view grew dark, almost pitch black. The tweezers slid past the outside, torn layer of skin and she pushed them past the first sign of resistance, deeper into the wound. He tightened up under the push, his abdomen muscles clenching, almost buckling him in half. She went to pull it out but he was there, with his good hand, snatching her by the wrist before the tweezers were withdrawn.
“Do it.” She could see him talking past his tightened face muscles. “Do it.” He let go of her arm and laid his back down, closing his eyes and rocking back.
She pressed back in again and felt the skin slice out of the tweezers way, then the tink of metal on metal. It was the bullet, so she loosened her pinch on the tweezers, letting them open up. The wound dripped again, spurting blood out onto his chest and he tried to keep breathing on beat. She focused again – deeper – on to what she was doing, having to wipe away the blood with the gauze every attempt she made to get back to the bullet. It was lodged about a finger’s deep in his chest and after what seemed like long enough to kill him, she managed to get hold of it.
His breathing skipped several beats, she noticed, stopping all together as she began to pull the bullet out. It slid out at the end of the tweezers to a wet thwap and he opened his eyes to the sound of the squished lead ball hitting the porcelain tub basin. She looked down as it rested in a puddle of his blood.
They both looked up at one another – and at once exhaled.
