The Scene

I've never been squeamish—of blood. Maybe that territory comes from my being a girl. Blood I can handle, but cutting open a body? No, that would surely scare me. The blood on the inside of that body would just be natural. I could never be a surgeon, or any form of doctor that would cut something open. But one has to face their fears some time.

I don't understand hemo-phobes—that is the right word isn't it? For people who have a phobia of blood. My vocabulary has never been extensive, so I could be wrong. Or is it helio…no, that's sun. Homo? No, that's completely different. Hemo is the root word meaning blood right? Hemoglobin…doesn't that have to do with blood? I digress…I don't understand those girls who are afraid of blood or go "ew" and look away from it. What do they do their time of month? Pass out a couple times? Are they just trying to appear dainty and girly? Fragility never got our gender anywhere in this life. You know the girls I mean. The ones who wear miniskirts and Uggs and think they're so cool. I've never been one of those girls. In fact, blood almost had a hypnotizing effect on me. I distinctly remember when I was younger, sitting in this large chair in our living room just watching the blood from some scratch or bug bite I'd picked at pool and slowly run down my leg. I was entranced by it. And I don't understand people's disgust when you try to stop something from bleeding by licking your fingers and pressing them to the open skin. Haven't you ever licked the smeared blood off your body? Everyone knows it has a metallic taste, and most probably know from experience. Don't get me wrong, I'm not some vampire who wants to drink blood. I'm quite sure I wouldn't enjoy that. Blood just doesn't scare me.

A metallic taste…there's blood in my mouth. There's blood on my hands. My fingers are covered with its deep red. I press them against my chest—it's wet with blood, and soaking through my clothes. It rains onto the pavement and on my brand new white tennis shoes. Something trickles down my back, and I know it's not sweat; it feels almost sticky, and not cold. A bullet went clean through me.

Blood lingers on my lips, as I spit it out of my mouth. Hunched over, my hands still against the hole in my chest, starring at the dyed ground, I know I'm losing too much blood. I wonder briefly how much blood is actually in the human body. If I had been a doctor, that's probably something I would have known.

My nearly lifeless eyes look upon my killer as I raise my head up. The gun appears to still be smoking and it's aimed, with no shaky hand, right at me. He is several more feet away than I recall. I must have staggered back from him after that shot. His eyes are even more lifeless than mine. They're cold, like my body soon will be. What I wouldn't give to know what my eyes look like to him. Is there hatred in them? Are they bitter? Somehow I doubt it. I seem to be having an out of body experience. I feel no pain, I feel no emotion, I'm rather apathetic. Every second seems a lifetime, and nothing hurts. Perhaps I'm already gone. Drifting away into nothing. The essence of who I am is slowly leaving my body. I'm already detached from this life.

I do not fear death, just as I do not fear blood. And since I'm bleeding to death there continues to be poetry in the world. In a sense, it's almost beautiful. Who knows what will happen when I die. I've never given much thought to the afterlife, I'm not a religious person and they tend to think on it quite a bit. But I preferred to live my life without questioning my every action in terms of an afterlife that may not exist. Heaven, hell, reincarnation, who knows? If I had to pick, I'd choose the latter. A new chance at life as some sort of animal would be an experience on perspective at the very least. Would I remember who I was? Or am I already one of many lives I've been through? More realistically, I think dying would be like going to sleep after a long day. Peaceful.

Perhaps the religions were right though; I'm soon to find out. Speaking of religion, isn't there a religion where the congregation takes part in drinking the blood of Jesus or something like that? I believe it's Catholics who do that. Is it called the sacrament? I don't know my religions, and on my dying hour isn't it ironic that I ponder them.

Perhaps this metaphorical (or not) drinking of the blood is why there is an association between blood and wine. Red wine of course. I barely remember any of my high school Spanish, but I think blood is san…something. Sanguine…I swear it's something with "san" in it. Which brings me back to my point, there's a drink that's common with Mexican food—sangria. It's made with wine. It's what makes me think there is a connection between the two.

Another shot rings out. I look my killer in the eyes as my knees give out and they fall to the pavement. There's more blood—another wound—coming from my right side. My vision blurs out of focus for a moment, but his movement brings it back. He's taking almost hesitant steps towards me. You can't really fear me, you're holding the gun. He stops in his tracks a few feet in front of me. His face is expressionless, a perfect blank. He looks how I feel—numb. I'm empty, even with this blood pouring out of me. I still feel nothing. No sorrow, no regret, no anger, no sadness, and no pain. Just an out of body sensation.

I'm completely at his mercy; I can't move, or run, or defend myself in the slightest. And no one is going to come for me. I'm going to die here tonight, we both know that.

My hands seem to fall from my wounds. They're coated with blood and hanging limply at my sides. My killer steps towards me once more, the gun pointed directly at my heart. Before I know what's happening, I'm smiling, almost smirking triumphantly, up at him. There is a flicker of confusion in his eyes. My hands lung out to grasp his shirt. I think I'm more surprised that he didn't shoot or move a muscle, than he was by my action. He didn't even flinch, but his eyes widened for a moment. The gun is still pointed, silently for now, at my heart.

The last of my strength is ebbing away as I grip his shirt tighter with both my hands. I'll leave my mark, my blood, on him. While he may literally be able to wash it out, he will never truly be clean off the blood upon his hands.

My manic smile cracks open, releasing a soft laugh. With it comes more blood…and then another laugh, louder and stronger than the first. Besides his two shots, this laughter of mine is the only thing that has broken our silence.

Where there was once confusion, disgust now gleams in his dark eyes. He turns his nose up, as if he is so much better than I am. I continue my uncontrollable laughter as he takes a half-step back, leaning away from me—as if I'm sick, contagious, carrying some psychotic disease he wishes not to catch. Again he takes a step back, and my hold on him loosens. His eyes leave mine for a moment as he stares at my hands clenched weakly on his clothes. Locking our gaze once more, I see a fire in his eyes. My killer knows I can't hold on much longer. He slowly moves further away from me. My hands slip, and because I was reaching towards him, I lose my balance and fall forward, my smile faltering and laughter dying.

I don't have the strength to push myself off the ground. I lie very still, unable to tell whether or not I'm even breathing. Carefully, I tilt my head up and with half-lidded eyes I find his again. The smile reappears, and with it brings him fear. This time, the expression isn't fleeting. His body tenses, his mouth parts slightly in surprise, and his eyes appear to shake.

Even though I'm losing everything, his fear makes me victorious. The laughter begins to bubble up once more. It's eruption startles him to the edge. The gun falls from his hands—not with a bang, but a dull clank that is all but masked by the sound of my thundering laughter. He stares into my eyes, and what he sees there scares him. We both know I will haunt his nightmares from now on.

He looks away from me, tears now falling from his eyes. Unable to handle my presence, or soon to be death, he turns and flees.

My laughter dies down to mere chuckling, and then ceases altogether. The smile remains upon my lips even as I lose sight of his figure. I close my eyes, weary and ready for my endless rest.

Funny. I wonder if there has ever been a crime scene where the victim was found smiling at death. Although, in all honesty I'm only playing the victim—I had really planned to kill that boy tonight.