.

the sound is turned off.

my ears just don't work during stressful situations or when i know something bad might happen. it's a sense i have, like a defense mechanism. the three little bones in my head go limp and the hairs in my cochlea cease to sway.

silence.

figure out what is worse; actually hearing chaos, or having the sights, smells, and sensations of it amplified to the point of overload.

the sound is turned off.

blood smells like metal. when there's enough of it the heat and acrid smell of it turns my stomach. when my ears stop responding, i can't even hear the dull thud of impact. it makes me feel like an observer, which helps me to stay calm in a way. the pain is there and the smell makes the bile begin to rise in my throat.

you don't just look down to find the bottom two thirds of your leg floundering the way your pants would if you forgot to pull them on all the way. you don't just instantaneously develop a second knee.

i'm almost positive i was shot, although i never heard a gun. as i said, my ears can prove fickle in times of need. however it happened, the fact remains that my femoral artery is spilling its contents all over just about everything and my vomitting has done nothing to ease the situation. i need all the fluids i can keep in me at this point.

the situation in which i find myself, temporarily deaf, bleeding, vomitting, in the presence of three corpses (did i neglect to mention that?), begs the question: how did i get here? besides my own, whose blood is all ove rthe walls in delicate dripping patterns like a dali in a blender, or an oversized steadman?

situations like this happen in slow motion in the movies, but in reality it juust happened not five minutes ago and already i can barely remember the details. it's four in the morning and i can't hear a sound, if there are any to be heard. one 40-watt appliance bulb in a shadeless lamp is all that lights the room. a moth has singed the tips of its wings on the feebly-heated glass while its shadow makes the light seem far away like a quasar... blinking and twinkling. the dim flicker makes the room seem like another planet; a grey,desolate place where the inhabitants wither and die from some unseen pathogen. the veins that usually bulge and writhe in my arms all look like drinking straw wrappers soaked in milk. my hands have felt numb foer what seems like hours and my fingers feel like they are glued to my palms.

the sound is creeping back.

i can hear the dull thud of my weakening heartbeat in my ear. my carotid and jugular transferring a swish and thud through my mandible.

thud. .thud. .clickclickclickclick. .thud. .thud. .clickclickclick..thud.clickclickclick.thud..

my gaze comes to rest on the corner of the room. a girl is shuffling her back up against the wall as if to push through and escape, and with her hands she is squeezing off already spent shells from a .38 caliber snub-nosed revolver in my general direction. i can't tell if the look on her face is pain, fear, disgust, or panic. most likely a combination of any or all of them.

there's no way to measure fate or the bearing it has in our lives, but i'm sure it's as real as the hairs in my nose. fate is why i am here. how i got here is completely different story. i think how i got here has a lot to do with this girl who is clickclickclicking away at the trigger as if to click out some frantic morse code to the associated awaiting authorities who are undoubtedly outside this otherworldly room right now, pondering whether or not to vaingloriously blast open the door and firestorm their dangerous perpetrator to death. at this point, my survival mechanism has been running so fevered for so long that i can't even remember her relation to me, let alone why she so badly must be wishing the pistol she weilds was firing live shells into my wretched body. she is just slightly sweating in this thick, humid night air, full of sickness and hurt. her body is frantic and jerking as far away from my area of the room as possible, yet her eyes are almost cool, masking her thoughts which are being betrayed by her shallow nervous breaths. the fabric of her clothing clings to and releases from her skin and shakes in time with and according to her movements and breathing. it's funny what shock will make you notice.

it would probably be a good idea to explain how i got here, and it would make sense to give a hint as to why this all has happened.

considering the track record of late, no good ideas have turned out to be worth the sense upon which they relied.

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chapter II some other day.

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