Someone's In My Head (WATTYS AWARD WINNER 2015)

Chapter Fourteen (Pt. 2)

Some twenty minutes into our drive, Phil pulled up at the gas station. The meter on the dials had been running low, and Phil didn't wanna risk having us stuck in the middle of the road when Jarod Wickernham was still high on the police's 'Wanted List'.

While waiting for the metallic beast to finish its meal, Phil entered the convenience store to buy some fresh bandages and a bottle of Listerine. It was not a bad thing Lenny had provided us with some pocket money―it basically covered any necessary expenses in the near future. And as Tanya was still sound asleep back in the stolen car, Phil decided it was time to check on his wounded forearm.

Phil made his way to the small cramped toilet behind the convenience store, locking the door as he went in. Sitting down on the closed toilet bowl, he started examining the wound on his forearm.

It seemed that the makeshift bandage wasn't that effective at absorbing liquid. Already I could see the blood seeping through the edges of the bandage. Phil muttered a soft curse under his breath as he peeled away the blood-soaked fabric.

Fortunately, under the direct pressure, the gash had stopped oozing blood like a cut pipe. Unfortunately, there were signs of puckering on the skin surrounding the cut, and that wasn't good. It could only mean one thing―the onset of infection.

Giving the bottle of Listerine a good hard shake, Phil unscrewed it. Staring back down at his bloodied forearm, Phil took a deep breath and braced as he poured the Listerine onto the wound.

Instantly, a sharp piercing sting shot up my arm and right into my head. You know, like the times when you happen to slam your nose into a wall and a nauseating feeling appears between your eyes. Yeah, that was exactly what I was feeling right now. And it hurt.

If it was up to me, I would have instinctively dropped the Listerine bottle right away, clamped at my arm and jumped around in pain. But it wasn't me, and Phil was basically trained to bear any sorts of pain, starting from an amputated foot as basic training. A forearm cut to him was like...bench-pressing 10 pounds.

"Damn."

Phil grimaced briefly, before emptying the contents of the bottle in one swift movement. The pain intensified some more, but once the remains of the Listerine wasn't dripping down the wound, it began to subside. Once he was satisfied that his wound was cleansed thoroughly enough, Phil grabbed a wad of clean bandage and dabbed on the edges of the wound.

As the pain coursed through my arm in spasmodic intervals, I overheard Phil's thoughts. Now don't charge me for eavesdropping; Phil was literally projecting his thoughts at me. And it isn't that easy not to overhear anything when there's a guy shouting right inside your head.

"It's not Lenny that shot me. Or ordered to have me shot, for that matter." He was saying in an urgent voice. "It couldn't be him. He―"

Betrayed you, you moron.

Naturally, Phil didn't hear me. "―I mean, if he'd really wanted me dead, he could've done that when I was back in the lab. Why go through all this trouble to get me to Chambers', let me spend a couple of moments with my wife, and then kill me with a hired hitman disguised as a chauffeur?

I was about to retort when another tirade came smashing in. "And what does he stand to gain by killing me anyway? For Pete's sake, I'm just a copy of my own consciousness. It's not like Lenny could benefit by killing me or this scrawny Jarod kid either."

Excuse me? You could describe me with quite a number of adjectives, but 'scrawny' surely isn't one of them. Especially if it's used with the word 'kid' in the same sentence. And stop convincing yourself. Your unrequited love for Lenny is only gonna get both of us killed.