I had been let go from Queen of the Valley emergency department. They had ordered an X-ray of my ankle, but once they determined the bullet wasn’t near anything that threatened life or limb and that I had no insurance or ability to pay, they discharged me. They never even removed the gauze pad the medic had put in place or physically looked at the wound. Even the police officer who had been assigned to escort me to the hospital was rattled and said it wasn’t fair.
I was taken to the police station in the front seat of the squad car. I was limping a little bit. My ankle had started to be seriously uncomfortable. About a 5, and swelling like hell. It was the size of the calf of my other leg. They took me to the interrogation room. Asked if I wanted anything. I asked for a sandwich, a coffee, a first aid kit, and some painkillers. They brought them, went through my rights, told me they would be recording, that I wasn’t being charged with anything and wasn’t suspected of anything at the present time, but if I falsified my testimony, that would be a crime in and of itself.
I agreed that I understood. I asked about Brittany. They told me she was dead. I had known, but that made it real. I didn’t have time for it to be real. I needed to be articulate, thorough, strong. I know they would have let me not be. I needed it for me, not them. The alternative was too frightening to name.
So I said “that’s too bad” and took four Advil dry and held a can of cold soda to my ankle until the tuna sandwich had come from the Subway across the street. We talked about background during that time. How I’d met Brittany, what I knew of her relationship with Jason when I first met her, a little bit about Harry Potter. The recorder was running, but it wasn’t the real thing yet and we all knew it. They were good to me.
I finished my sandwich, chugged the soda, opened the Johnson and Johnson first aid kit they’d brought me and apologized that they weren’t able to do more. I peeled off the gauze pad. The hole was smaller than I’d thought, and it began bleeding again. Drops at first, big and fat and spattering on the floor in a pattern like a constellation against the black tile. Blood is thick. You could hear the drips. Plot plot plot. I probed the wound carefully, palpating the bullet. It became a thin trickle, not enough to be dangerous, too much for individual drops.
I started talking then. Really talking. About the shooting itself. Whether I was distracting myself from what I was saying by what I was doing to my ankle or the other way around, it didn’t matter and was probably both. I thought they were fireworks. Wipe it with the alcohol. That’s why I called 9-1-1. The skin was torn in a T-shape. Wrap another alcohol wipe around the end of the q-tip. There’d been some kids at the end of the block with firecrackers earlier in the week. Clean under the little skin flaps. I thought shit, they’ve gotten some big ones. Wanted to call before someone blew their - oh motherfucker that stings, sorry - blew their fingers off. Take the tweezers and get a little shred of blue fabric out where I can see it in the wound.
Two years ago right now, I started trying to clean up the mess.
I had cleaned the wound and closed it with two butterfly strips and a drop of superglue. I had tried to get the bullet because it was so close to the surface, but it had fractured, and when I used the tweezers to try to get it, a piece of it broke off and the rest went deep and got swallowed by my ankle. Three gauze pads had been folded up and taped in place, and both the Advil and endorphins had kicked in. The puddle of blood covered most of the tile. That sounds like a lot, but it was maybe at most half a cup. A few paper towels covered it, but the rest would have to wait until we were done and they could use proper biohazard precautions.
I’d like to say that it was just that I’m that badass and brave. The truth is, it was like watching myself. Over there, things were not ok. Over there, my ankle was very, very unhappy. Here? Here was numb and yet crystal clear, and I’ve rarely been so effortlessly composed and on top of things. I was told I’d be unable to return to the crime scene until at least the next day and would be put up in a hotel for the night if I couldn’t find somewhere else to stay overnight. I asked to borrow a phone. I called some local contacts and my best friend. Got the balls rolling. Went back to the interrogation room and kept talking.
I was finally done at the police station. They had offered me another sandwich, more Advil, more coffee, more soda. I had said no. I was too far away from myself to want it, and I was concerned that if I had it, I might come back. The gauze was still white. It needed to stay that way.
The detective apologized for not stopping me when he saw the time, but he said it was the most comprehensive, detailed, articulate testimony he’d ever heard about something like this so soon from someone actually there. I remember making a noise a lot like laughing and saying “I’m a novelist. I write death.”
He said “most people don’t want to be in the story, though.” That’s one of those things I kept in a mental file folder because it’s quotable and profound and you can do a lot with it if you put it at the right place in the story, ironically enough. I haven’t used it, though. Until now. I realized the only story it belongs to is mine, and I am in my own story, like it or not.
There was no one local enough who could put me up, so they said they’d put me in a hotel for the night. On the way there, they got a call from an officer. They’d cleared my cell phone, made copies of the data. I could pick it up. They detoured, got my phone and my ID. Everything else was still part of the crime scene.
I went to the hotel. They checked me in. Used that word again; Survivor. I didn’t like that word, but I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t limping, but they kept looking at my ankle and then at each other and frowning and asking me if it was ok. I kept saying yes.
I had nothing to unpack in the room. Turned down an offer to order me a pizza. Took off the gauze and the butterfly bandages and looked at the ankle carefully. Took a picture in the hotel bathroom on my phone. It was so little.
Put the gauze back on and went and sat on the bed and plugged in my phone. A. Anderson. First name in the contacts that was someone who wouldn’t have been informed by the police. I didn’t want people to find out from the news. I’d heard the things those reporters were hearing.
Send. Hi, this is Andrew, Brittany’s roommate? Yeah, sorry about the hour. I hate to do this, but I have some very bad news….
Two years ago right now, I would keep doing that until one in the morning. From her massage client to her fandom friends to her godmother.
I’m still the one telling people. Who else really can? I’m the Survivor.
Andy's account of the shooting - 2 year anniversary version, part 2
Two years ago right now.
I had been let go from Queen of the Valley emergency department. They had ordered an X-ray of my ankle, but once they determined the bullet wasn’t near anything that threatened life or limb and that I had no insurance or ability to pay, they discharged me. They never even removed the gauze pad the medic had put in place or physically looked at the wound. Even the police officer who had been assigned to escort me to the hospital was rattled and said it wasn’t fair.
I was taken to the police station in the front seat of the squad car. I was limping a little bit. My ankle had started to be seriously uncomfortable. About a 5, and swelling like hell. It was the size of the calf of my other leg. They took me to the interrogation room. Asked if I wanted anything. I asked for a sandwich, a coffee, a first aid kit, and some painkillers. They brought them, went through my rights, told me they would be recording, that I wasn’t being charged with anything and wasn’t suspected of anything at the present time, but if I falsified my testimony, that would be a crime in and of itself.
I agreed that I understood. I asked about Brittany. They told me she was dead. I had known, but that made it real. I didn’t have time for it to be real. I needed to be articulate, thorough, strong. I know they would have let me not be. I needed it for me, not them. The alternative was too frightening to name.
So I said “that’s too bad” and took four Advil dry and held a can of cold soda to my ankle until the tuna sandwich had come from the Subway across the street. We talked about background during that time. How I’d met Brittany, what I knew of her relationship with Jason when I first met her, a little bit about Harry Potter. The recorder was running, but it wasn’t the real thing yet and we all knew it. They were good to me.
I finished my sandwich, chugged the soda, opened the Johnson and Johnson first aid kit they’d brought me and apologized that they weren’t able to do more. I peeled off the gauze pad. The hole was smaller than I’d thought, and it began bleeding again. Drops at first, big and fat and spattering on the floor in a pattern like a constellation against the black tile. Blood is thick. You could hear the drips. Plot plot plot. I probed the wound carefully, palpating the bullet. It became a thin trickle, not enough to be dangerous, too much for individual drops.
I started talking then. Really talking. About the shooting itself. Whether I was distracting myself from what I was saying by what I was doing to my ankle or the other way around, it didn’t matter and was probably both. I thought they were fireworks. Wipe it with the alcohol. That’s why I called 9-1-1. The skin was torn in a T-shape. Wrap another alcohol wipe around the end of the q-tip. There’d been some kids at the end of the block with firecrackers earlier in the week. Clean under the little skin flaps. I thought shit, they’ve gotten some big ones. Wanted to call before someone blew their - oh motherfucker that stings, sorry - blew their fingers off. Take the tweezers and get a little shred of blue fabric out where I can see it in the wound.
Two years ago right now, I started trying to clean up the mess.
http://andythanfiction.tumblr.com/post/49869153100/two-years-ago-right-now-i-had-cleaned-the-wound
Two years ago right now.
I had cleaned the wound and closed it with two butterfly strips and a drop of superglue. I had tried to get the bullet because it was so close to the surface, but it had fractured, and when I used the tweezers to try to get it, a piece of it broke off and the rest went deep and got swallowed by my ankle. Three gauze pads had been folded up and taped in place, and both the Advil and endorphins had kicked in. The puddle of blood covered most of the tile. That sounds like a lot, but it was maybe at most half a cup. A few paper towels covered it, but the rest would have to wait until we were done and they could use proper biohazard precautions.
I’d like to say that it was just that I’m that badass and brave. The truth is, it was like watching myself. Over there, things were not ok. Over there, my ankle was very, very unhappy. Here? Here was numb and yet crystal clear, and I’ve rarely been so effortlessly composed and on top of things. I was told I’d be unable to return to the crime scene until at least the next day and would be put up in a hotel for the night if I couldn’t find somewhere else to stay overnight. I asked to borrow a phone. I called some local contacts and my best friend. Got the balls rolling. Went back to the interrogation room and kept talking.
Two years ago right now, I did what I had to do.
http://andythanfiction.tumblr.com/post/49906982267/two-years-ago-right-now-i-was-finally-done-at
Two years ago right now.
I was finally done at the police station. They had offered me another sandwich, more Advil, more coffee, more soda. I had said no. I was too far away from myself to want it, and I was concerned that if I had it, I might come back. The gauze was still white. It needed to stay that way.
The detective apologized for not stopping me when he saw the time, but he said it was the most comprehensive, detailed, articulate testimony he’d ever heard about something like this so soon from someone actually there. I remember making a noise a lot like laughing and saying “I’m a novelist. I write death.”
He said “most people don’t want to be in the story, though.” That’s one of those things I kept in a mental file folder because it’s quotable and profound and you can do a lot with it if you put it at the right place in the story, ironically enough. I haven’t used it, though. Until now. I realized the only story it belongs to is mine, and I am in my own story, like it or not.
There was no one local enough who could put me up, so they said they’d put me in a hotel for the night. On the way there, they got a call from an officer. They’d cleared my cell phone, made copies of the data. I could pick it up. They detoured, got my phone and my ID. Everything else was still part of the crime scene.
I went to the hotel. They checked me in. Used that word again; Survivor. I didn’t like that word, but I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t limping, but they kept looking at my ankle and then at each other and frowning and asking me if it was ok. I kept saying yes.
I had nothing to unpack in the room. Turned down an offer to order me a pizza. Took off the gauze and the butterfly bandages and looked at the ankle carefully. Took a picture in the hotel bathroom on my phone. It was so little.
Put the gauze back on and went and sat on the bed and plugged in my phone. A. Anderson. First name in the contacts that was someone who wouldn’t have been informed by the police. I didn’t want people to find out from the news. I’d heard the things those reporters were hearing.
Send. Hi, this is Andrew, Brittany’s roommate? Yeah, sorry about the hour. I hate to do this, but I have some very bad news….
Two years ago right now, I would keep doing that until one in the morning. From her massage client to her fandom friends to her godmother.
I’m still the one telling people. Who else really can? I’m the Survivor.