Gina
The atmosphere is heavy. I can feel the heat like a brand on my back. It burns like a fire, searing my skin like a red-hot branding iron as I pull Joel into my lap. His eyes close and then open again, and I let out a guttural cry. It sounds so foreign, so animalistic, that if I didn’t know it came from me, I might never believe it.
“Joel!” I scream, shaking him, but his body doesn’t move.
I am sure he is dead. I can see the hole in his chest. Blood is seeping through his shirt and soaking through the fabric of his pants and pouring onto the walkway. I press my hand against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding.
My face is sticky with blood, and my hands are covered in it. It is warm and sticky and soaks into my cuticles. I can taste it on my lips, thick and salty. My brain is scr
