The Other Harry #Wattys2015

Chapter 33

-Chapter 33- 

 In a moment like this, you expect time to slow down. Like the climactic moment of a film when the action decelerates and the camera comes to focus in on the excruciating detail of a scene. On each bead of sweat forming on the protagonist's face in high definition, the glint of the bullet inching closer, the wisps of gunsmoke curling in the air.

But life is not like films and bullets never slow down.

They wouldn't hurt or destroy if they did; all force and linear momentum, as intense as a head on collision or the perfect kiss. The bullet flies out too fast and hits its target. I feel a little of myself ebbing away, bleeding out.

I don't try to stifle my hysterical sobs. There is nothing rational in my head, it's all been burned up. My anchor is gone and I feel myself float further and further away from anything sane. I shoot again, same place. Again, again, again. Until my ears are ringing, everything tastes like metal and there are no more bullets left in the chamber."

Hands plunging into my hair, my stomach twists and tangles, hurting so intensely I have to bend over- turning my head away from the machine so I don't have to look at what I've done.

What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

The scientist woman is looking though, her expression a silent mirror of the horror I’m feeling as she slams her hands over her mouth and shakes her head. .

The machine sparking draws my attention again. I whirl around to see a cascade of light falling from it, energy flowing from the broken wires hanging down like severed veins. Rushing forwards, I wrestle with the bonds and yank the wires from Harry's nose.

He slumps against me and I can't support the limp weight of him, staggering backwards until we both crumple to the floor.

Running my fingers across his nose- a thin channel of blood slipping out of it, his cheekbones and the curve of his lips,  I feel out each soft contour of his face before bringing his head close against my heart and breast and holding him there.

He lets out a panicked yelp and his chest begins to heave violently as he comes to.

Comes to and finds himself unexpectedly alive.

Never trust me to make the right choice in a situation.

I hold him tight, rocking, sobbing, but Harry struggles against me, still hyperventilating, pulling away to look at me, an intense confusion playing on his face. His hands drift up to his forehead head, then frantically paw at his own bare chest, expecting to feel out the wet heat of a bullet wound. He finds only the scars on his shoulder and his hip.

Eyes wide with the shock of it all, Harry looks up at me and tries to say something - a string of questions probably- but all the noise he can make is a strained series of guttural tremblings.

"I missed," I tell him shakily, my hand on his cheek, gazing down at his lovely oh-so alive eyes. "Whoops."

Harry opens his mouth to speak, then ducks his head and vomits thickly onto the floor beside us.

Fists clenching and unclenching as he looks down at the puddle of his stomach contents, Harry swallows and speaks in a low voice, "You missed five times?"

"I guess I'm a lousy shot," I manage. Before I burst into tears all over again.

They're bitter, confused tears. On the one hand I've fucked everything up, failed the world when I failed to shoot Harry- and shot out the machine and wasted all the bullets so it's not even an option anymore (which I suspect was my intention as I did it) . I've let him down which stings more than anything. But I feel even worse because I don't regret it. Not even a little bit.