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She had on purple panties with a little white bow and one of my white undershirts and one sock. She always kicked the blankets off. She bit her lower lip in her sleep. She slept on her side with a hand under her head and her hair tickled my face and woke me because she’d just gotten it cut and it was everywhere rather than braided at night. When I woke up, I realized I had to pee and tried to climb out the end of the bed so I wouldn’t wake her.
I remember glancing at the cheap little clock on the windowsill with the red numbers made of dashes. 3:03. Nine hours and one minute and two years ago until she’d die in the bathroom where I carefully stepped over the board that squeaked and used the hand sanitizer because the plumbing was loud and a day later the biohazard company would rip out the squeaky board and carry it away in big red bags because it was soaked with her blood.
I wish I’d cuddled tighter when I got back in bed, even if I’d woken her.
We made breakfast in the rice cooker. Oatmeal with raisins. She took a shower, put on her favorite purple fuzzy leopard print pajama pants, and her last pair of clean panties; Jelly Belly novelty print. The factory was just down the road; we liked to go try the new flavors and she’d found them in the clearance bin. Said her laundry situation had officially crossed to desperate and grabbed my grey henley.
I was wearing pajama pants, boxers, and a tshirt. I don’t remember anything else about my own clothes. That’s odd.
We sat on the end of the bed and discussed the day. If we got everything totally ready for Monday’s trip to the courthouse and our plans for the big hike later before lunch, we could go hiking or to the library and then do laundry that evening. We should totally take the long side road to Fairfield proper and maybe get one of those burritos we’d had two days before from the lunch counter at the back of the Mexican grocery store and split it for dinner. Along the way, we could stop off at the little roadside stand of the farm that grew cherries and almonds and olives and apricots. We were almost out of olive oil and we could see whether she preferred one of Brittany’s neck massages or me painting her next seasonal sign in barter this time as we had done before.
Morning stuff.
We had tea with our oatmeal; PG Tips with a little bit of sugar and a splash of dollar store almond milk.
She got out the forms she’d need for the courthouse about having served the papers on Jason and handed them to me. I had better print handwriting. She cleaned up breakfast while I filled in the stupid stuff: case number, plaintiff name, case number, defendant name, case number, courthouse address, date, case number. They want you to write the case number on everything.
She got back and sat behind me on a pile of pillows, pulled me half into her lap, plopped her chin on the crook of my neck and shoulder, looked down over it and put her fingers in the small of my back. I have a little knot of scar tissue there that makes it hurt sometimes. She started rubbing that almost absently while she told me what to write in all the other boxes and lines.
She had less than three hours to live.
We had no idea.
I would not have wasted it on case number and courthouse address.
The forms were finished and zipped into the organizer for the court paperwork. We had maps and a dozen tabs about visas open and three tabs about backpacking on nothing. Now that the judge had said that this was almost certain to be over and in her favor in a matter of weeks, we had decided to take a year or two and hike the world on as little money as possible and take the time to get our heads together and decide what we actually wanted to do with our lives rather than make any knee-jerk expensive decisions. We were looking at whether there was any way to streamline applying for the visas to each country individually if we didn’t know exactly when we’d be there or for exactly how long. I’d made a bunch of notes; so had she.
The computer was propped up on a dollar store mesh inbox organizer thing to stay cool. We were kind of puppy-piled on the corner of the bed. Her legs were on top of mine and my lower right leg had gone numb, but I didn’t want to ask her to move because I was trying to postpone the awful pins and needles feeling.
Jason’s father called her briefly. He apologized for the night before and asked if he came up with the money Jason had offered, would she just walk away? She said no, and said there were three reasons. The first was that would just mean Jason had victimized his father as well, making him pay for Jason’s assholery, and especially because she knew he’d have to sell his precious collection of antique woodcarvings to get it. The second was that 10,000 was a mere 5% of her property. But the third and most important and the reason she wasn’t just saying fuck it in the first place was that she did not want Jason to get away with it. Take a girl at 19, abuse her for years while she builds a business and makes savvy real estate deals in both your names, and then when she walks away from the abuse, illegally keep everything and be an asshole to her until she lets you have it no matter what the law says. She was absolutely certain that if he got away with that once, he’d do it again, but if it cost him, he might think twice.
She didn’t even go into the fourth reason - which I thought mattered but she didn’t - that as long as it was like this, she was fucked. She had nothing, absolutely nothing, but on the books, she was wealthy and owned property. Which mattered for taxes, loan applications, any form of assistance, credit rates, credit checks, and even, yeah, visas. If she either really had nothing or really had something, it’d be fine. But if the official world expects you to have money and you don’t, you’re really fucked.
It was a short conversation. Maybe three minutes? We resumed looking at visa requirements for Turkey. No, I don’t think he knew.
We certainly didn’t.
Two years ago right now, we had exactly an hour left.
(Note: Andy's claim that Brittany made "savvy real estate deals" is contradicted in this article about the shooting - http://tf-talk.dreamwidth.org/600.html?thread=449880#cmt449880)
We had sent an email to a friend of Brittany’s who was a travel agent. We had sent a few more emails to friends who were one way or another helping us figure things out for the hike. We had finalized the list of what vaccines we would need to get or update, and where they were available in the Napa area. We’d found a really, really cute little one-bedroom caretaker’s cottage through a friend of a friend that was considering workswap on a tiny organic vineyard, and we had called and talked to the owner about using it as a gap residence between the case settling and starting the hike.
I had a commission I was working on for a client who was starting a yoga studio and wanted some artwork, and Brittany had a client call and schedule a massage for the following day. I would later have to call that client for her and cancel. For obvious reasons. Though it was very surreal doing that from the police station.
We figured if we kept working at this pace, super-efficiently, we’d be done by one, easy. We decided to take our bikes with us as an option if we wanted to roam further afield or the weather turned.
Two years ago right now, we had half an hour left.
I texted my client that I’d be happy to meet her Monday morning at 9:00. The Starbucks in the shopping center with the Safeway across the street would be fine, the one next to the Hawaiian BBQ joint. Brittany got up and rummaged around for some clean-enough jeans and a bra and tossed them on the end of the massage table. She couldn’t find her other sneaker. I said it was probably under the laundry. She stuck out her tongue and said she’d wear some of mine.
I got an email from the cottage person, like they said they’d send. I called her over to look at it. Exposed beams, hand-worked stucco, leaded glass Tudor windows, wrought iron details, stone floors and countertops. A one-room studio, but damn. Gotta love Napa.
Two years ago right now, Jason was printing out his suicide note. They found a lot of loose ammunition that suggested he’d loaded and unloaded the gun multiple times. It was a Glock 19 9mm with an extended magazine. He’d bought it perfectly legally in Arizona where they didn’t make him wait and didn’t care that he’d been in and out of mental hospitals or that he was in the middle of a court case with a woman who had filed domestic abuse charges against him or that he had a restraining order against him from the court.
She asked me if I wanted some tea. I said yes please, and we discussed what kind, agreeing on vanilla chai green tea. Not too much caffeine, we were awake enough and didn’t need the jitters. She unplugged the electric kettle and left the room to fill it in the bathroom sink. She shut the door with her foot. I don’t know why. She wouldn’t have, usually. It may have saved my life by putting that extra step between him and just blowing me away.
Jason parked the truck and entered the back yard. Lucky, the golden retriever, knew him well and didn’t bark, even though according to Lucky, rogue squirrels, shadows, or light breezes required at least a half hour of full-throated screaming to alert us to their threat.
Two years ago right now, we had less than a minute.
(Note: Andy has claimed elsewhere than Jason entered the room and pointed a gun at his face, which jammed. He then claimed Jason left the room, and at which point Andy either barricaded the door, or locked it, or both. If those claims are true, Brittany closing the door here would not affect the outcome of Andy surviving the shooting.)
It was theoretically over. The last two shots had been fired. Jason was dying. Brittany and the other housemate was dead. There was a bullet in my ankle, and I was on the phone with the dispatcher who was coordinating with the SWAT team who were about to enter the house.
I was sitting on the curb across the street from the house that still had a dozen SWAT team members inside. I was still in zip cuffs. I had seen one figure come out on a stretcher and go in an ambulance that had left. Deep down, I knew that Brittany was dead. They hadn’t been making any medical efforts on her. But a part of me refused to accept that yet, and I was making ridiculous justifications to myself. The medics had come later for her. My sense of time was fucked. They’d taken her out the back and I hadn’t seen. I heard “only survivor” and refused to let it mean anything.
People in uniforms were everywhere, reporters starting to appear at the edges of the yellow lines of crime tape, neighbors I knew well and vaguely milling around the outer rings of this weird circus in displaced and frightened confusion and flashing into and out of view at windows in flickers of curtains and blinds.
Some of them shouted questions at me. Some of them shouted other things. There was an assumption that if I was in cuffs, I was the shooter. I am slight of build, 5'7", and had painted finger and toenails in bright colors because she’d felt silly and I’d let her paint them. I got called some really lovely names, including a lot of expressive conclusions about my gender and/or orientation and/or relationship with the various deceased that ran a broad gamut. I ignored it. My hair was turquoise, and I wished I had a hat. I felt like they wouldn’t be able to see me then.
They had swabbed my hands for gunshot residue. My ankle was starting to hurt; a dull, throbbing ache. It was still bleeding. The medic had taped a gauze pad over it, but that had soaked through. There was a little puddle under my heel. I was barefoot. Ants were poking at the edges of the blood puddle.
I poked the ants with my other toes.
Two years ago right now, I was in shock, I think.
I think a part of me still is.
Andy's account of the shooting - 2 year anniversary version, part 2
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 3
>J F C Andy! I knew that the American health system was problematic but they didn't help you at all? Then the police just let you bleed and take it out yourself and didn't help you either? That's just sick! How is this allowed? Anonymous
1. If you are not in any significant danger, the hospitals here have no obligation to treat you. The bullet was not in a place where it risked my life or even crippling me as it was, and the bleeding was relatively minor and certainly not remotely life threatening. So yes, I was just told to leave. It’s not even sadly that bizarre that they didn’t look under the gauze. Since it wasn’t bleeding through that badly, they wanted the x-ray first before they shifted anything, and the x-ray showed there was no need to treat me at all.
2. I didn’t take it out myself. I tried, and it fractured and I only got a fragment. The rest of it was taken out two weeks later by a surgeon…another story in and of itself.
3. I’m pretty sure, when I look back, that the cops had no idea the extent that I was digging around in it and I know they didn’t know how much I was bleeding. I had asked if I could “clean it up and stuff.” They were on the other side of the table and from where I had my leg crossed on my lap, they couldn’t see the ankle itself or my hands on it. Yeah, I took about 15 minutes, but given that I never looked up and what I was talking about and the monotone, I think they just assumed I was kind of fiddling with it, probably taking my time because of how much the alcohol stung. From where they were sitting, they’d have only seen the little alcohol swab packets piling up, the bloody swabs and q-tip, and the empties from the butterfly bandages, gauze pads, etc, all of which are perfectly reasonable to let someone do for themselves. And again, I wasn’t giving any reactions that would have indicated there was more going on. In retrospect, they seemed startled when they came around the table to give me the bathroom break and let me use the phone and saw the blood, but they did play it off very low key and just “we’ll put some paper towels down, clean it up later, no big deal.”
4. Basically, the ER were dicks and our healthcare system IS fucked, but the cops were awesome and it’s not their fault that in my current headplace, amateur field surgery seemed like a reasonable idea.
>I'm so so so sorry. Is writing about what happened like a coping mechanism for you? It's strange to me, because my coping mechanism is to completely block and repress memories, or I feel like I'm going insane. it's painful to see you remembering things in details and I just want to give you the biggest tightest of hugs and not say anything until this day ends.
Thank you for your compassion, and I’m sorry that this is upsetting for you. Sincerely, I am, and I don’t hold it against any of the people unfollowing me today.
It is absolutely a coping mechanism. Part of it is that working through it in linear time like this forces it to make clear sense of first A, then B, cause and effect, etc. Putting it in a detailed, orderly line lets me see that it’s not just a freak finger of God THING that happened. It takes sensations and memories that are powerful in awful ways against me and in which I was helpless and turns them into word-structures that *I* choose and *I* have power over. It makes it make sense, which lets me cope with it, and it makes it a narrative, and that makes it make more sense and lets me cross-reference it to other narratives and use lessons from them to help me deal and feel a sense that I’m not alone nor do I have to stay alone and fester inside it because narratives make the unfathomable communicable and thus relatable and thus surmountable. Furthermore, putting it in public lets me see that it makes sense to others outside my head, and that gives it an external validation of reality that is really important for someone with a history of hallucinations.
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Andy's account of the shooting - 2 year anniversary version, part 1
(Anonymous) 2015-04-22 12:55 pm (UTC)(link)She had on purple panties with a little white bow and one of my white undershirts and one sock. She always kicked the blankets off. She bit her lower lip in her sleep. She slept on her side with a hand under her head and her hair tickled my face and woke me because she’d just gotten it cut and it was everywhere rather than braided at night. When I woke up, I realized I had to pee and tried to climb out the end of the bed so I wouldn’t wake her.
I remember glancing at the cheap little clock on the windowsill with the red numbers made of dashes. 3:03. Nine hours and one minute and two years ago until she’d die in the bathroom where I carefully stepped over the board that squeaked and used the hand sanitizer because the plumbing was loud and a day later the biohazard company would rip out the squeaky board and carry it away in big red bags because it was soaked with her blood.
I wish I’d cuddled tighter when I got back in bed, even if I’d woken her.
Especially if I’d woken her.
http://andythanfiction.tumblr.com/post/49852550927/two-years-ago-right-now-we-made-breakfast-in-the
Two years ago right now.
We made breakfast in the rice cooker. Oatmeal with raisins. She took a shower, put on her favorite purple fuzzy leopard print pajama pants, and her last pair of clean panties; Jelly Belly novelty print. The factory was just down the road; we liked to go try the new flavors and she’d found them in the clearance bin. Said her laundry situation had officially crossed to desperate and grabbed my grey henley.
I was wearing pajama pants, boxers, and a tshirt. I don’t remember anything else about my own clothes. That’s odd.
We sat on the end of the bed and discussed the day. If we got everything totally ready for Monday’s trip to the courthouse and our plans for the big hike later before lunch, we could go hiking or to the library and then do laundry that evening. We should totally take the long side road to Fairfield proper and maybe get one of those burritos we’d had two days before from the lunch counter at the back of the Mexican grocery store and split it for dinner. Along the way, we could stop off at the little roadside stand of the farm that grew cherries and almonds and olives and apricots. We were almost out of olive oil and we could see whether she preferred one of Brittany’s neck massages or me painting her next seasonal sign in barter this time as we had done before.
Morning stuff.
We had tea with our oatmeal; PG Tips with a little bit of sugar and a splash of dollar store almond milk.
She got out the forms she’d need for the courthouse about having served the papers on Jason and handed them to me. I had better print handwriting. She cleaned up breakfast while I filled in the stupid stuff: case number, plaintiff name, case number, defendant name, case number, courthouse address, date, case number. They want you to write the case number on everything.
She got back and sat behind me on a pile of pillows, pulled me half into her lap, plopped her chin on the crook of my neck and shoulder, looked down over it and put her fingers in the small of my back. I have a little knot of scar tissue there that makes it hurt sometimes. She started rubbing that almost absently while she told me what to write in all the other boxes and lines.
She had less than three hours to live.
We had no idea.
I would not have wasted it on case number and courthouse address.
http://andythanfiction.tumblr.com/post/49857291227/two-years-ago-right-now-the-forms-were
Two years ago right now.
The forms were finished and zipped into the organizer for the court paperwork. We had maps and a dozen tabs about visas open and three tabs about backpacking on nothing. Now that the judge had said that this was almost certain to be over and in her favor in a matter of weeks, we had decided to take a year or two and hike the world on as little money as possible and take the time to get our heads together and decide what we actually wanted to do with our lives rather than make any knee-jerk expensive decisions. We were looking at whether there was any way to streamline applying for the visas to each country individually if we didn’t know exactly when we’d be there or for exactly how long. I’d made a bunch of notes; so had she.
The computer was propped up on a dollar store mesh inbox organizer thing to stay cool. We were kind of puppy-piled on the corner of the bed. Her legs were on top of mine and my lower right leg had gone numb, but I didn’t want to ask her to move because I was trying to postpone the awful pins and needles feeling.
Jason’s father called her briefly. He apologized for the night before and asked if he came up with the money Jason had offered, would she just walk away? She said no, and said there were three reasons. The first was that would just mean Jason had victimized his father as well, making him pay for Jason’s assholery, and especially because she knew he’d have to sell his precious collection of antique woodcarvings to get it. The second was that 10,000 was a mere 5% of her property. But the third and most important and the reason she wasn’t just saying fuck it in the first place was that she did not want Jason to get away with it. Take a girl at 19, abuse her for years while she builds a business and makes savvy real estate deals in both your names, and then when she walks away from the abuse, illegally keep everything and be an asshole to her until she lets you have it no matter what the law says. She was absolutely certain that if he got away with that once, he’d do it again, but if it cost him, he might think twice.
She didn’t even go into the fourth reason - which I thought mattered but she didn’t - that as long as it was like this, she was fucked. She had nothing, absolutely nothing, but on the books, she was wealthy and owned property. Which mattered for taxes, loan applications, any form of assistance, credit rates, credit checks, and even, yeah, visas. If she either really had nothing or really had something, it’d be fine. But if the official world expects you to have money and you don’t, you’re really fucked.
It was a short conversation. Maybe three minutes? We resumed looking at visa requirements for Turkey. No, I don’t think he knew.
We certainly didn’t.
Two years ago right now, we had exactly an hour left.
(Note: Andy's claim that Brittany made "savvy real estate deals" is contradicted in this article about the shooting - http://tf-talk.dreamwidth.org/600.html?thread=449880#cmt449880)
http://andythanfiction.tumblr.com/post/49858489523/two-years-ago-right-now-we-had-sent-an-email-to
Two years ago right now.
We had sent an email to a friend of Brittany’s who was a travel agent. We had sent a few more emails to friends who were one way or another helping us figure things out for the hike. We had finalized the list of what vaccines we would need to get or update, and where they were available in the Napa area. We’d found a really, really cute little one-bedroom caretaker’s cottage through a friend of a friend that was considering workswap on a tiny organic vineyard, and we had called and talked to the owner about using it as a gap residence between the case settling and starting the hike.
I had a commission I was working on for a client who was starting a yoga studio and wanted some artwork, and Brittany had a client call and schedule a massage for the following day. I would later have to call that client for her and cancel. For obvious reasons. Though it was very surreal doing that from the police station.
We figured if we kept working at this pace, super-efficiently, we’d be done by one, easy. We decided to take our bikes with us as an option if we wanted to roam further afield or the weather turned.
Two years ago right now, we had half an hour left.
http://andythanfiction.tumblr.com/post/49859498127/two-years-ago-right-now-i-texted-my-client-that
Two years ago right now.
I texted my client that I’d be happy to meet her Monday morning at 9:00. The Starbucks in the shopping center with the Safeway across the street would be fine, the one next to the Hawaiian BBQ joint. Brittany got up and rummaged around for some clean-enough jeans and a bra and tossed them on the end of the massage table. She couldn’t find her other sneaker. I said it was probably under the laundry. She stuck out her tongue and said she’d wear some of mine.
I got an email from the cottage person, like they said they’d send. I called her over to look at it. Exposed beams, hand-worked stucco, leaded glass Tudor windows, wrought iron details, stone floors and countertops. A one-room studio, but damn. Gotta love Napa.
Two years ago right now, Jason was printing out his suicide note. They found a lot of loose ammunition that suggested he’d loaded and unloaded the gun multiple times. It was a Glock 19 9mm with an extended magazine. He’d bought it perfectly legally in Arizona where they didn’t make him wait and didn’t care that he’d been in and out of mental hospitals or that he was in the middle of a court case with a woman who had filed domestic abuse charges against him or that he had a restraining order against him from the court.
Two years ago right now, we had fifteen minutes.
http://andythanfiction.tumblr.com/post/49859976476/two-years-ago-right-now-she-asked-me-if-i
Two years ago right now.
She asked me if I wanted some tea. I said yes please, and we discussed what kind, agreeing on vanilla chai green tea. Not too much caffeine, we were awake enough and didn’t need the jitters. She unplugged the electric kettle and left the room to fill it in the bathroom sink. She shut the door with her foot. I don’t know why. She wouldn’t have, usually. It may have saved my life by putting that extra step between him and just blowing me away.
Jason parked the truck and entered the back yard. Lucky, the golden retriever, knew him well and didn’t bark, even though according to Lucky, rogue squirrels, shadows, or light breezes required at least a half hour of full-throated screaming to alert us to their threat.
Two years ago right now, we had less than a minute.
(Note: Andy has claimed elsewhere than Jason entered the room and pointed a gun at his face, which jammed. He then claimed Jason left the room, and at which point Andy either barricaded the door, or locked it, or both. If those claims are true, Brittany closing the door here would not affect the outcome of Andy surviving the shooting.)
http://andythanfiction.tumblr.com/post/49860142280/two-years-ago-right-now-she-was-murdered
Two years ago right now, she was murdered.
http://andythanfiction.tumblr.com/post/49860459838/two-years-ago-right-now-it-was-theoretically
Two years ago right now.
It was theoretically over. The last two shots had been fired. Jason was dying. Brittany and the other housemate was dead. There was a bullet in my ankle, and I was on the phone with the dispatcher who was coordinating with the SWAT team who were about to enter the house.
Two years later, right now, it is not over.
http://andythanfiction.tumblr.com/post/49862349777/two-years-ago-right-now-i-was-sitting-on-the
Two years ago right now.
I was sitting on the curb across the street from the house that still had a dozen SWAT team members inside. I was still in zip cuffs. I had seen one figure come out on a stretcher and go in an ambulance that had left. Deep down, I knew that Brittany was dead. They hadn’t been making any medical efforts on her. But a part of me refused to accept that yet, and I was making ridiculous justifications to myself. The medics had come later for her. My sense of time was fucked. They’d taken her out the back and I hadn’t seen. I heard “only survivor” and refused to let it mean anything.
People in uniforms were everywhere, reporters starting to appear at the edges of the yellow lines of crime tape, neighbors I knew well and vaguely milling around the outer rings of this weird circus in displaced and frightened confusion and flashing into and out of view at windows in flickers of curtains and blinds.
Some of them shouted questions at me. Some of them shouted other things. There was an assumption that if I was in cuffs, I was the shooter. I am slight of build, 5'7", and had painted finger and toenails in bright colors because she’d felt silly and I’d let her paint them. I got called some really lovely names, including a lot of expressive conclusions about my gender and/or orientation and/or relationship with the various deceased that ran a broad gamut. I ignored it. My hair was turquoise, and I wished I had a hat. I felt like they wouldn’t be able to see me then.
They had swabbed my hands for gunshot residue. My ankle was starting to hurt; a dull, throbbing ache. It was still bleeding. The medic had taped a gauze pad over it, but that had soaked through. There was a little puddle under my heel. I was barefoot. Ants were poking at the edges of the blood puddle.
I poked the ants with my other toes.
Two years ago right now, I was in shock, I think.
I think a part of me still is.
Andy's account of the shooting - 2 year anniversary version, part 2
(Anonymous) 2015-04-22 12:56 pm (UTC)(link)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.
Andy's account of the shooting - 2 year anniversary version, part 3
(Anonymous) 2015-04-22 12:59 pm (UTC)(link)http://andythanfiction.tumblr.com/post/49872123285/j-f-c-andy-i-knew-that-the-american-health-system
>J F C Andy! I knew that the American health system was problematic but they didn't help you at all? Then the police just let you bleed and take it out yourself and didn't help you either? That's just sick! How is this allowed?
Anonymous
1. If you are not in any significant danger, the hospitals here have no obligation to treat you. The bullet was not in a place where it risked my life or even crippling me as it was, and the bleeding was relatively minor and certainly not remotely life threatening. So yes, I was just told to leave. It’s not even sadly that bizarre that they didn’t look under the gauze. Since it wasn’t bleeding through that badly, they wanted the x-ray first before they shifted anything, and the x-ray showed there was no need to treat me at all.
2. I didn’t take it out myself. I tried, and it fractured and I only got a fragment. The rest of it was taken out two weeks later by a surgeon…another story in and of itself.
3. I’m pretty sure, when I look back, that the cops had no idea the extent that I was digging around in it and I know they didn’t know how much I was bleeding. I had asked if I could “clean it up and stuff.” They were on the other side of the table and from where I had my leg crossed on my lap, they couldn’t see the ankle itself or my hands on it. Yeah, I took about 15 minutes, but given that I never looked up and what I was talking about and the monotone, I think they just assumed I was kind of fiddling with it, probably taking my time because of how much the alcohol stung. From where they were sitting, they’d have only seen the little alcohol swab packets piling up, the bloody swabs and q-tip, and the empties from the butterfly bandages, gauze pads, etc, all of which are perfectly reasonable to let someone do for themselves. And again, I wasn’t giving any reactions that would have indicated there was more going on. In retrospect, they seemed startled when they came around the table to give me the bathroom break and let me use the phone and saw the blood, but they did play it off very low key and just “we’ll put some paper towels down, clean it up later, no big deal.”
4. Basically, the ER were dicks and our healthcare system IS fucked, but the cops were awesome and it’s not their fault that in my current headplace, amateur field surgery seemed like a reasonable idea.
http://andythanfiction.tumblr.com/post/49872698460/im-so-so-so-sorry-is-writing-about-what-happened
>I'm so so so sorry. Is writing about what happened like a coping mechanism for you? It's strange to me, because my coping mechanism is to completely block and repress memories, or I feel like I'm going insane. it's painful to see you remembering things in details and I just want to give you the biggest tightest of hugs and not say anything until this day ends.
Thank you for your compassion, and I’m sorry that this is upsetting for you. Sincerely, I am, and I don’t hold it against any of the people unfollowing me today.
It is absolutely a coping mechanism. Part of it is that working through it in linear time like this forces it to make clear sense of first A, then B, cause and effect, etc. Putting it in a detailed, orderly line lets me see that it’s not just a freak finger of God THING that happened. It takes sensations and memories that are powerful in awful ways against me and in which I was helpless and turns them into word-structures that *I* choose and *I* have power over. It makes it make sense, which lets me cope with it, and it makes it a narrative, and that makes it make more sense and lets me cross-reference it to other narratives and use lessons from them to help me deal and feel a sense that I’m not alone nor do I have to stay alone and fester inside it because narratives make the unfathomable communicable and thus relatable and thus surmountable. Furthermore, putting it in public lets me see that it makes sense to others outside my head, and that gives it an external validation of reality that is really important for someone with a history of hallucinations.