SO… HERE’S the thing.
For a couple of days after… after it happened… I went back and forth, in and out of consciousness, in and out of focus, waking up briefly before going back to sleep.
I kind of knew where I was and I kind of didn’t.
I kind of knew what happened and wished I didn’t.
I’m not sure whether I was sleeping because I needed to or if I was sleeping because I didn’t want to be awake and think about what happened. Or if all the painkillers I was on were doing a number on me.
Or any combination.
But after three days, I woke up with a start.
Eyes wide open.
To everything.
And when I did wake up, Dad was there. And from the exhausted look on his face, I saw he’d been there the whole time.
Dad was holding my hand when I was finally and completely awake, and I saw him looking at me. “Hi, Pup,” he said, using the nickname he used when he was feeling particularly warm and loving, and then ruffled my hair. “Welcome back.”
From the look on his face, I could see he was trying not to cry. I’d never seen him cry before.
I was trying not to cry myself.
I was still hooked up to all kinds of machines and stuff. I’d been hit three times. No, actually, technically speaking, I was shot three times. Once in the shoulder, a flesh wound as they call it. Once in my side. The bullet entered and then came out, fracturing a rib as it did. And once in the leg.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
It hurt like hell. Like nothing I’d ever felt. Or ever wanted to feel again.
I tried to smile back at Dad, but everything hurt too much and I was just too tired. So I squeezed his hand back. It was the best I could do.
He told me that I was going to be okay. That I should be out of the hospital and back home in just a few days. That there’d be no permanent injuries.
I knew, I absolutely knew that there were a lot of things he wanted to ask me, and I was grateful that he didn’t. At least not yet.
I looked up at the TV Dad had been watching, which was over the bed. The news was on. And they were talking about it. They were showing footage outside the club, where people were hanging out and crying because they wanted to show they were sorry about what had happened and had no other way to do it.
Dad quickly turned it off before they showed anything I wasn’t ready to see.
I silently thanked him. I wasn’t ready to see any of it.
There was one thing I needed to know. Even though deep down I already did.
“Nate?” I asked.
From the look he gave me, I knew. I just knew.
Honestly, I think I already knew. I’d been there. I’d seen what happened. I knew. There was no way I couldn’t know.
But I didn’t want to think about it. I couldn’t think about it.
And I really didn’t want to talk about it.
So I shut my eyes, hoping it would all go away, hoping I’d fall back to sleep and wake up and find out it was all a horrible dream. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
My mind was playing back what happened. Memories of that night were starting to kick in. I could see it. I could hear it. Feel it. Even smell it.
Cologne and sweat and gunpowder.
And blood.
I couldn’t make it stop. No matter how hard I tried.
And I tried. Believe me, I tried. Fortunately, the painkillers I was getting helped a bit.
But just a bit.
I could still see it. I could still hear it. Smell it. And I could still see Nate there, and the knowledge that he was gone and I’d never ever see him again was becoming real.
And shutting my eyes could not make that go away.
The next day, the visitors started arriving. All of them wanted me to talk about what happened.
I couldn’t.
And wouldn’t.
Nurses came in and out, but my doctor showed up first thing in the morning. They always do, apparently.
“How’re you doing, son?” he said, using that fake bullshit cheer that totally creeps me out. Especially, as it turns out, when I’d been shot three times three days earlier, and you’d think it would be pretty clear to someone who claimed to be a doctor that I wasn’t doing all that well at all.
“How do you think I’m doing?” I said. I could see my parents (Mom had arrived earlier) were not amused at my smartass answer.
“You’re doing well, all things considered,” he said.
It turns out he was right, that I was, apparently, one of the lucky ones, all things considered. My shoulder wound was just that—a wound. The bullet that hit me on the side came out cleanly on the other side, “just” fracturing a rib. It hurt like a bitch every time I took a breath, but that too was kind of minor, again, all things considered.
What happened to my leg, though, wasn’t all that minor. According to Dr. Kiley I’d been hit at close range (no shit, I thought) by a 9mm FMJ (full metal jacket—the things you learn when you’ve been shot) bullet that pretty neatly snapped my fibula (aka calf bone) in two on its way out.
So during those three days I thought I was sleeping, I’d had surgery on my leg, and now had a steel rod running from my knee down into the fucking marrow canal of the bone to help keep everything in place.
That would take the longest to heal. I’d be on crutches and then a cane for close to a year. With physical therapy during and after. No more soccer.
Not that I cared all that much about that. But still.
Hopefully there’d be some good meds if nothing else.
As the doctor left, he looked at me like he wanted to say something. Something mean, I was sure. Something about how I shouldn’t have been there anyway, and so I glared at him until he retreated out the door.
Two policemen arrived less than an hour later. All nice and sympathetic at first, asking me if I was okay, saying they understood how difficult this must be for me… blah, blah, blah, who do you think you’re fooling… before starting in to question me.
What do you remember?
Did you see the guy come in?
Did he give any warning?
Did he say anything?
Where were you when he started shooting?
What did you do?
Why didn’t you run?
What happened when you got hit?
Who was Nate?
What was your relationship?
Was he your boyfriend?
To which I answered:
Not much, it happened so fast.
No.
No.
Um, I don’t think so.
On the dance floor.
I didn’t know what to do, and before I could decide, it was too late.
I froze.
I fell and tried to crawl away before I could get shot again. And that’s all I remember.
He was my best friend.
He was my best friend.
No.
And then they asked:
What were you guys doing there in the first place? You’re both gay? Did your parents know you were there? And where did you get those fake IDs?
Shit. I’d forgotten all about those.
I tried looking over to Dad for help, but the cops were standing in between me and him. Probably intentionally.
I didn’t want to talk about any of that, but I had an overwhelming feeling they were going to make me do so whether I wanted to or not.
I started to say something but Mom jumped up and stopped me.
“I think he’s had enough for now,” she told the cops. “Can we continue with this some other time? He’s been through a lot, and he’s pretty well drugged up at the moment.” I saw them look at each other, but—unwilling to take my mom on, since she’s clearly fierce when in protective-mom mode—they nodded and said yes, ma’am and left, leaving a card on my bedside table for me to call them anytime should I remember anything.
“But don’t think I’m going to let you off that easy,” Mom said after they’d gone. “We will continue this discussion later.”
Dad said, “Come on, Mother… he’ll talk when he’s ready.” But even though my eyes were closed, I could feel the glare she sent his way.
It was the first time since it happened that I’d thought about how we’d gotten into the bar. And then the club. And about what Kristen and Ziggy and Nate’s parents must be going through. One thing I knew for sure was that I had to keep Kristen out of it, if nothing else. That I couldn’t let the blame for Nate’s… for what happened to Nate fall on her. It would wreck her. And her family.
And me.
So I’d say it was me if I had to. It was me who said we should go out. It was me who got the IDs.
It was my fault Nate was dead.
It had to be.
It has to be.
It must be.
Nate, who was good and kind and could make me laugh anytime he wanted to and knew me better than anyone and never did anything to hurt anyone ever, was dead.
And for some reason I wasn’t.
Why?
Why didn’t I get him out?
Why couldn’t I get him out?
And with that, I discovered one more thing to keep me awake at night.