six months // m.e

2.6

Has anyone ever thought of what the real definition of pain was? Is it comparable to anyone else's pain?

The answer is no. Of course, Webster's definition of pain is, "a symptom of some physical hurt or disorder," but we know that it's so much more than that.

The answer is no because whatever pain you are feeling in your life could hurt you just as much as I was hurting when I got shot. I wasn't hurting because I got shot. There was depth in that bullet.

I was in pain at the thought of losing my life. This oblivion that we all face is not something we want to come face to face with when we are eighteen, so we push it to the side and throw our middle fingers up in the air.

But what no one really knows is how to deal with it when it's there. Of course, it's always there. Some people drive themselves crazy over it.

I was always the type of person to push it aside. But of course, now that I was laying in my own pool of blood, I realized how close we are to it every day. How I shouldn't have spent days laying on the couch being depressed and I should have being loving the life I have. Life is such a vulnerable, lovely thing. It has to be cherished.

So there; my pain was not the bullet. It was the meaning behind the bullet. It was all the things I'd never be able to experience.

I would never get married.

I would never have a wild twenty-first birthday party.

I would never kiss Matt again.

There was something about Matt. Maybe the fact that he had seen me at my worst and my best that made me feel so comfortable around him, or that whenever I smiled his face seemed to glow. It was as if me being happy made him happy. I had so much of an effect on him and I never noticed it.

I was seeing everything in slow motion now. The stars above me glistened in the moonlight, and the sirens were slowly getting louder.

Someone grabbed my face and turned it towards them. It took me a moment to realize that it was the police officer that shot me. He had tears running down his face, which is not something you would imagine a middle-aged man with. He kept saying something to me over and over but I couldn't quite understand him. All I knew is that there was an immense amount of pain in my left shoulder and that I really wanted to close my eyes.

Oh, yeah, that's what he was yelling.

"Don't close your eyes. Keep your eyes open. God, please!"

That's when I saw him. His hair was an awful mess and he looked at me in horror as he ran closer.

"Dear God, Nina!" He screamed. As soon as he got near me, another cop came and grabbed the poor boy with the tear stained cheeks.

He was screaming and yelling and cursing and crying. He collapsed on the ground. He put his head into his knees. He told me he loved me.

I laid on the ground. I bled. I cried. I told him I loved him too.

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bYE noOOPE