Friday

Barry closed the door and worked on the lock for a good twenty-five seconds, and then the bolt faded in thin air and he liquefied against the wall, avalanched entirely on the floor with his supplies, holding himself with both hands. He buried his chin inside the collar of his suit and shouted “FUUUCK” Another shout came out from deep inside his throat but, this time, he shoved one hand between his teeth and chewed on his knuckles, trying to muffle the sound as much as possible. The little handicapped bathroom was now his shelter, but it was still a public place.

How could events turn so bleak so quickly? Barry rubbed his forehead against the damp wallpaper, banged his head on it in an attempt to escape the anguish at the middle of his body, “fuuu fuuuuhh fuhh hohy hffhih” he whimpered with his hand in his mouth. His other hand clutching his stomach, he felt the dampness of his suit; it was soaked, and having spent a little while in a vertical position, the wetness had reached below his knees. Not good, not good AT ALL, “I know!” he yelled to himself, accidentally sending some electricity upward. It shook the little light bulb above him.

“Aiille fuuck” he couldn’t avoid examining himself any longer. Barry inhaled sharply and looked down, slid his shaky hand away from his stomach, “ohmygod” A huge hole with shredded edges was gaping just above his belly button, slightly on the left side. He could already feel that small difference in a new order inside his body, sending some avid tongues of fire up his left flank, down to his waist and his leg. “Aiille fuuck ohmygod” the feeling of imminent vomiting fell heavy on his chest at the sight of the blood, which was really his main issue at the moment, and his drenched sticky fingers were no longer doing much for him. He re-positioned his hand on his abdomen and painfully launched the other to bring closer the little pile of supplies that had fallen near him.

A roll of shoelaces, some women’s pads snatched from the entrance dispenser, two rags including one that was still covered in breadcrumbs, a huge navy-blue hooded sweatshirt, that’s all he had managed to gather as necessities in this escape-slash-rebound slaloming mission. He shook his head, disappointed. The sight of the things wasn’t as comforting as he would have thought.

Really? You have been shot by a gun and now you’re going to rotisserie chicken yourself?

He really had to discontinue scolding himself so harshly right now, “it’s okay” he said. With his one free hand, he grabbed the roll of laces and scratched out the tip from it, placed it between his teeth. Some families of ants were strolling up and down his left arm, they were wearing some sharp little shoes, and he guessed it was the arm where he had been shot just before dropping from the top of the building, but he could still move quite normally, so Barry did his best to ignore the situation. He pressed one of the napkins against his stomach, stiffened and bit his lips and then waited a couple of minutes for the pain to recede.

Well that’s too bad ‘cause the pain won’t recede. Indeed it would not recede, he saw sadly, so he went to the next step and tied the clean rag on top of the pad, “Jesuus aiille fuuck ohmygod” the tightness was really an agony, but he had to go on, it was now time for rapid action, as his butt was marinating in some fresh blood, so he rolled himself into the thin string, braced for the knot, “motherf—” His feet kicked the emptiness, stomped on the floor. His exhausted arm fell on his side. Now what? He heard his own breath wheezing at the exit of his mouth. Now what.

A break, he thought, blowing some hot air and closing his eyes. He let his head fall back against the wall behind him.

Now what? The voice insisted.

Maybe I need to go to a hospital.

Are. You. Fucking. Nuts?

Yeah no, okay, you’re right, he shook his head, felt the tears bite into his sinuses. He had nowhere to go, nowhere to spread himself on the ground and get assistance, nowhere to find his team. He was hurt and he was completely on his own. He blinked some eye water away and squinted through the dust floating in the bathroom, observed the slit-like window carved at the top of the wall above the toilet, which opened to the ground level of the street adjacent to the bar. The familiar chiming of a bus rang through the business of the avenue. The dimming light from outside was carving a path of glitter like a hanging line through the bathroom, reminding Barry of the existence of the world around him. He knew exactly where he had ended, as he was very acquainted with that specific intersection. He closed his eyes again, as moving them inside their globes in the open air hurt too.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

I’m going to go there, I don’t have another option.

Against all odds, the voice wasn’t critical of this idea, however crazy it was. Walk there, Barry heard.

I can’t walk.

You can bolt.

I can’t move my ass, he sighed.

You can bolt! You can always bolt, Barry Masquevert.

I can bolt, alright, he let the tears fall freely on his cheeks. They too seemed possessed by some fire and burned through the dirt on his skin. Stop this pain, stop this anguish, he begged.

Stop thinking about how much you are hurting, a sorry remark came to him once more. Remember, replacing movement by movement, it’s easier than moving out of stillness.

What the fuck does that even mean

Barry nodded to the voice and its unexpected wisdom, remember, just don’t stop moving, “I got it OKAY?” he snapped at the messenger inside his head, exasperated, and extended a leg to attempt to bring the large dark sweater he had snatched from one of the bar’s patrons on his bolt through the dining hall. That leg was stuck half bent, it was really throbbing from the crooked path of the bullet inside his gut, so he tried with his other leg.

Success! With great difficulty, he coiffed himself with the hood and looked up at the small sink on his left. The plan was slowly materializing in his brain. He would wash up so as to look presentable to the outside for a very temporary adventure on the street, and then he would bolt, and the bolt would carry him to the bus, and then, motherfucker, you can’ t be serious, he would take the bus. His spirit broke at the idea of himself, a speed-of-light type of person, a superhero from the racing kind of them, forced to use public transportation. While he was deploring his current fate and without letting go of his stomach, Barry tossed one hand up and hooked it on the sink. He took a quivering breath and pulled, “motherfu—” Impossible again. Two hands, probably, were necessary. Some leg power as well.

He retreated into the darkness inside again: now he was seeing the importance of his inner voice focus on movement. Stiffness was waiting hungrily at him, to stop moving and to perish, to freeze on his spot and be devoured by the floor. It was like quicksand, in a way, conquering one part of his organism after the other. In the end he would drown in stillness if he didn’t keep moving.

Transform movement into movement, adjust direction. All this was all fine, all sound advice. Clutching the little sink with two hands this time, he wriggled his feet through the pain and brought them up, “aiille fuuuck” pushed on his soles, “sonofab—” unable to utter a finalized cuss word as the only breathing that was presently allowed to him was a very shallow one. Miraculously, the pushing and tugging proved efficient and, claiming a little bit of altitude, he felt ready to raise himself upwards, “Jesus Jesus Chr—” or pass out, that was also a possibility. His vision blurred and was soon invaded by some very dark butterflies with some very thick wings. He drew a deep breath and tried to recenter. He bent his elbows and reached the sink, on top of which he crumbled again. Hopefully this thing was strongly drilled into the wall.

After what felt like another reckless eternity granted to the passing of time, Barry lifted his head first, secured his forearms as well as he could on the edges of the sink and launched the top part of his body up. He banged his forehead against the mirror surmounting the sink but, correcting his aim, finally caught sight of his reflection. “Oh lord” he gasped, “holy shit” His face was glistening in blood, his skin the color of death under the layer of red and Bordeaux, paleness that was accentuated by the dark hue of the hood he had brought down on his skull. Under his mad eyes, some thick grey circles were digging themselves as if his eyes were making a hole around themselves to disappear into. He looked like a creature from the swamps.

“Come on work, work” he encouraged the tap, “give me some water, some nice water” and it did. It worked very smoothly and with a blessed soft flow. The fresh water he splashed on his face was quite a nice feeling so Barry permitted himself a few minutes of suspension, shook his head under the drip, wiping the filth off his skin the best way he could. In a grunt, he lifted himself to the mirror again, saw a small improvement in his appearance, but he couldn’t linger too much there, as his current position was simply too excruciating, the edge of the sink biting into his stomach. He pushed himself away from it and used the wall to hold himself up, aimed tediously at one of the sweater’s sleeves with a trembling hand. One hand, the other, now, the other one. Put your hand inside the sleeve Barry.

Before zipping up, he darted an eye down at himself again, found that the makeshift roll he had tied around his abdomen wasn’t yet soggy with new blood. It was possible that the tide was finally turning after all, just a little bit, but he had to keep his concentration up and the butterflies with their dark wings at bay. Each one of his thundering heart beats was sending waves of fire through his entire body, and he knew he had to face a very new but real threat of just fainting. How many bolts could he still have in store before consciousness would become a confiscated thing? Maybe two, maybe three.

It seemed inconceivable that he would put one foot in front of the other and be able to walk to the destination that he had in mind, however, with the energy of a new bolt bubble, he could realistically hope for a reasonable stroll. If only he managed to do away with the agony that was munching at his stomach, tearing through his legs, curling around his shoulders. That, he saw, wouldn’t be the bolt, rather, it would be what George called mind over matter.