Paper Trails 2 | Draft

1.

"Damaged people are dangerous. They know how to make hell feel like home."

*****

I can still hear it in my head. Over and over. Loud. Deafening. Two gunshots, one right after the other. So quick. Seconds. Seconds.

It's all over in seconds.

Death isn't slow. It's quick. And it wraps its cold, unforgiving arms around you and it rarely lets go.

Neila Abrams died for two minutes.

I died.

And I don't remember it. I don't remember what I saw, or if I saw anything, or what I felt, or if I felt anything. I don't remember a bright, white light. And I don't remember darkness.

But I remember the sound. I remember the gunshots. I remember what my blood looked like on his hands. How it speckled his skin.

I remember the smell. And the sound.

I don't remember what followed.

I don't remember dying.

But I did die.

Somehow, I did. Somehow, I'm still here.

Not that here is any better than death. Just as lonely.

But I was okay. I was okay with pulling the needle out of my arm. I was okay with the tingling sensation as every part of my body began to relax. I was okay with the way my eyes rolled back into my head. I was okay with blacking out for a little while. I was okay with waking up in the morning on the floor.

I was okay.

My hands shook more. Processing my thoughts took a little more time. And the numbness...well it was there. I was numb.

But that didn't matter, because I died. And yet I'm here. I was okay.

I always survive.

I could feel his fingers trailing down my spine. Light. Gentle. He leaned forward and kissed my shoulder. He smelled like beer and Axe.

Unlike the past few guys I'd been with this week, he wasn't an ass. He was nice. Caring. Gentle. Of course, he was also thirty-four with a wife and two kids, so maybe he was an ass.

Maybe I was the ass for sleeping with him.

Maybe I was an even greater ass for not caring.