Page 94 of Victorious

She was about to set off down the street, when a voice called out, “Annie, Annie, over here.”

June turned to find a group of women, all in various stages of retirement, gathered round a waiting bus.

“There you are,” said a short old lady with a shock of silver hair.

“No need to fret,” said another as June hurried toward them. “The bus won’t go without you.”

The group folded around her like a coat.

“We thought we might have lost you.”

“Hazel said you’d gone to bed, but I knew, you wouldn’t miss the night tour.”

“We can sleep when we’re dead!” offered one, which earned a rousing cheer.

“Come on, off we pop,” said the first, shooing June toward the steps, and onto the bus, where she collapsed into a seat, unsure whose hands were trembling—the old woman’s or her own.

XIIINOW. THEN.

SEVERAL HOURS LATER

BLOOD dripped onto the cheap linoleum.

It wasn’t the worst place she’d ever stayed, but it was close. A pay-by-the-hour on the edge of town.

Annie had wandered off at the bus’s first pit stop. June now braced herself against the bathroom sink, a first aid kit on one side and a bottle of whisky on the other.

Her green eyes were fever bright, her auburn hair plastered to her cheeks with sweat, her skin gray beneath the harsh fluorescents as she surveyed the damage.

The bullet had gone straight through. So there was that. Punched a neat hole through her side but missed the vital parts—as far as she could tell. She pressed gauze to the bullet hole, blood soaking through in seconds. She had to close the wound.

The light above the counter hummed.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the whisky.

She spun the top off and took a swig, letting it burn.

For years, June had felt nothing.

Now, she felt too much. Some moments the pain was a heavy throb and others it was sharp enough to bend her double. Her empty stomach churned as the liquor hit, her skin clammy and her knees week, her pulse ringing in her ears.

Was this really what being human felt like?

How did people stand it?

How had she?

It took every ounce of self-control not to pull another body round her like a soft duvet, smothering her own discomfort. The only thing that stopped her was the fear—fear, like pain, a thing she hadn’t really felt in years—of what would happen if she was wrong about the wound’s severity, or her ability to heal from it. She didn’t know if she’d quietly bleed out inside another shell. Or if the damage, like her body’s other needs, would enter a kind of stasis.

She wasn’t keen to find out.

Her fingers trembled as she opened up the suture kit, did her best to sterilize the wound before forcing the suture needle through torn skin. She bit down on the towel, bile rising in her throat as she tied off the first stitch.

One down, three to go, but June paused, letting her forehead rest against the cold counter. Took another swig. Continued, until the exit wound was closed, only a thin line of blood leaking between the coarse black stitches.

Now for the hard part, thought June, letting out a haggard laugh, soft and humorless.

The entry wound.