Most people must have had a life where they grew up, went to college, and by luck or connections, they landed a job_ the kind that allows for a comfortable existence. Maybe even the "best life" as some would call it. Well, people operate on a different axis. At 23, Halle wouldn't claim to be entirely cursed by fate, but luck hadn't exactly kissed her on the forehead either. In a strange twist, she managed to snag a waitress job at this Diner in the downtown. It wasn't much, but it kept the lights on and paid her bills. That was about it.
Tonight had been long and rough, the kind of shift that wrapped itself around her spine and squeezed. But lady luck in her fickle way, had smiled upon her. A hundred bucks in tips, and for her, that's what winning looked like. It was late_ probably past midnight_ too late for most folks to be out. Though the hour was late, the kilometre walk back to her boarding room was her usual routine. Every saved bus fare was a small victory against her ever tightening grip of her finances. Besides, these were the very streets that had witnessed her childhood, the silent keepers of her meager history.
The deserted road stretched before her, illuminated by the hazy glow of the streetlights and as her eyes roamed around the space ahead of her, she spotted a vehicle. Not just an ordinary vehicle that one would spot on their street, but a black SUV parked haphazardly, it's front door swinging open like a broken wing. This worried her. Had it been stolen? Was the town she knew becoming more dangerous.._ ? But before she could dismiss and walk on, something caught her eye_ a man slumped against the doorframe.
He was wearing a white t-shirt, or atleast it used to be white. Now it was soaked with dark, sticky blood. He sat there like it was no big deal, trying to tend to the wound bare, trembling fingers, as if pretending the pain away.
She cursed the part of her that still gave a damn.
"Sir, are you alright?" She asked, hesitantly.
He didn't even look at her when he muttered, "Do I look alright to you?" His voice was rough, edged with a dismissive arrogance that immediately set her teeth on edge. Just as she decided to leave his entitled, bleeding self to his own devices, he spoke again, a grudging urgency in his tone. " Just help me." The lack of a "please" solidified her initial negative thoughts.
"Why don't you call an ambulance?" She countered, her own stubbornness rising.
He stared at her as if she had suggested he sprout wings and fly to the moon. A sigh, heavy with exasperation, escaped her lips. Fine. She thought, what choice did she have? Leaving him there to bleed out on the pavement would haunt her.
She cautiously approached him. Up close, the extent of his injuries was even more gruesome. The air around him was thick with the metallic scent of blood. With what little strength he seemed to possess, she helped him maneuver into the passenger seat. He barely groaned, just a tight clenching of his jaw, a flicker of pain in his dark eyes. "Hold on," she told him, though she wasn't sure who she was trying to reassure.
Halle didn't wait for a response. She moved to the drivers side, slid into the plush seat, and fumbled with the unfamiliar controls. This was insane. Utterly insane. Driving a stranger, bleeding and who knows what else, to her cramped boarding room. But the image of that blood-soaked t-shirt wouldn't leave her mind.
The few other souls who inhabited the boarding house were likely deep in sleep. She parked in the dimly lit alley behind the building and practically dragged him inside, his weight a heavy burden.
Her tiny room felt even smaller with his imposing presence. She helped him onto her lumpy couch, the springs protesting under his weight.
"Do you… do you have a clean blade?" he rasped, his eyes fixed on me with an unnerving intensity.
A clean blade? The request was bizarre, but as it happened, she did. A few days ago, she had bought a small utility knife for opening stubborn packaging at the diner. It was still relatively new, tucked away in her drawer. Halle retrieved it, handing it to him with a hesitant curiosity.
Without a word, he took it. His hand, surprisingly steady despite the evident pain, moved with a chilling purpose. He ran the blade along the taut skin of his abdomen. Halle flinched, instinctively turning her head away, but a morbid fascination kept her gaze locked on the scene. He probed with the tip, his breath catching in sharp, shallow gasps. Then, with a sudden, brutal movement, he extracted something small and metallic. A bullet.
It clattered onto the worn wooden floor. The wound immediately began to bleed more profusely, a horrifying gush of crimson. Halle scrambled for the roll of cotton wool she used for removing my makeup, pressing it against the gaping injury. It was soaked through in seconds. Desperation clawed at her.
She ripped strips from an old scarf, her hands shaking, and tied them tightly around his torso, hoping to staunch the flow. "Got any alcohol?" he asked, his voice weak but still carrying a hint of that initial arrogance.
She stared at him, dumbfounded. "Why would she have alcohol? She didn't drink."
He let out a sigh, a sound of weary resignation. He closed his eyes, his face pale and drawn against the faded fabric of my couch. He looked strangely vulnerable, the hard edges softened by pain.
He lay there, a dangerous stranger bleeding in her tiny living space, the expensive black SUV a silent sentinel in the alley outside. Her hundred-dollar tip, the small victory of her day, felt insignificant now, swallowed by the unsettling reality of the situation. Her life, usually a predictable rhythm of work and quiet solitude, had just taken a sharp, inexplicable turn.