The Unknown Tales: A Collection of Short Stories, One Shots, and More

Bullet-Proof

When the gun was invented, nothing could stop it. Heavy bullets cleaved armor, passed through it like paper, mangled flesh. Smiths found a way to strengthen the iron layering it, folding and hammering iron until all the brittle impurities were gone. The knights were protected. The most vulnerable parts of their bodies were safe.

When we met, I was fighting for my life. Bullets pierced my armor made for deflecting arrows and glancing swords. I bled my life into the greedy ground hooked on to things that gave me strength enough to get through one more day but drained me of all else. Deadly toxins flowed through my blood, a lethal slushy churning inside. I was so ready to let my bullet-riddled body go.

We met in a little café on a street corner on one of my stronger days, but the cup still slipped from my shaking hands and crashed to the ground. Falling, falling, shattering. You stopped to help me and smiled. All I ever received before were accusing and annoyed glares from the poor baristas and customers who witnessed my weakness.

My fingers didn't shake so much the rest of the day.

For a week I went back every morning to that corner and waited with a small hot chocolate warming my hands. Coffee made me shake worse. Sometimes you were there already getting your large coffee with two espresso shots, black. You'd smile at me and take a big gulp of almost boiling coffee and I'd wonder if you had any taste buds left and if they worked, but I guess smiths are used to being burned.

Some days you were running late, but the barista with red eyeshadow always had your coffee ready to go. With a shy smile she'd give it to you, and you'd tell her to keep the change. They never made my drink before I got here, but then, I never was in a hurry and I never came every morning.

I wasn't ready for the next bullet. It caught me as I left; tore a hole right through my chest so quick and hard I thought maybe it had gone through me and hit you standing at the counter. But you in your bullet-proof armor never felt a thing.

I don't know why I went to the café that morning. Maybe I was growing accustomed to my daily hot chocolate or maybe it was something a little more. I looked forward to your smile and missed it immensely when you weren't there on Thursday.

I should have stayed home and rested. My body was tired from taking the bus every morning and making the two-minute walk to the corner and back again, but I felt more alive than I had in years. Even lying on the ground, I made up my mind to fight. I could feel people panicking around me, shouting, hands touching me. Wailing sirens plunged like sharp knives into my ears.

When I woke up hours, days later, I knew I might never see you again. It would be months before I could make my slow way to that café with my hot chocolate stain still on one of the seats. You might have found a new place with better, cheaper coffee, or maybe you didn't come in the morning anymore.

Spring came again before I left the hospital and summer was nearly past before I sat in that café again. The barista with red eyeshadow wasn't there and I wondered who made your coffee in the morning: if you even came anymore.

I was just about to leave when the bell jangled fiercely and you blew in with the brisk wind, hair askew and out of breath. You glanced around the room, perhaps out of reflex and then stopped. I didn't think you would see me tucked away in the corner, a husk of a body swallowed by a too-big sweater, but you did. Without even ordering your coffee you came over with the biggest smile I had ever seen on anyone.

Here's the thing about armor: it's hard to make. Pieces break under the hammer and must be reforged. But with enough time, skill, and care, a smith can make armor no bullet can pierce.