Oneĭelalieu is standing at the foot of my bed, clipboard in hand. Make sure they keep him alive for me.ĭelalieu looks up, his eyes wide. He moves to help me up, but I grab his arm. I’m sweating in an excessive way that isn’t lost on me. I take a small breath and run a shaky hand across my forehead. How should I direct the soldiers?įind her, I tell him. The bullet has broken or fractured something, and this will require surgery.ĭelalieu says nothing for just a moment too long. In the meantime, elevate my arm and continue applying direct pressure to the wound. Alert the medics and have my bed prepared for our arrival. The world tilts and steadies all at once. Take me back, I tell him, shifting, just a little. I haven’t gone deaf.Īll at once the noise disappears. I’ve been shot, Delalieu, I manage to say. They keep shouting Sir! as if they’re still waiting for me to give them orders, as if they have no idea what to do without my instruction.
Several people are shouting and too many of them are touching me, and I want their hands surgically removed. I have to squeeze my eyes shut, grit my teeth, and force myself to pay attention. Torture is roaring through my right arm and making it difficult for me to focus. My skin is cold and clammy I’m making a herculean effort to breathe.
And, as it turns out, a bullet wound is even more uncomfortable than I had imagined.
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