Thirty-Five
BEFORE I CAN EVEN BEGIN to process what has happened, Helen cries out, “My God, Tom! She shot me! That crazy b***h shot me! Oh, damn, damn, damn!”
I rush back down the staircase. Helen’s lying on her left side, blood soaking the entire right side of her blouse now.
“Don’t move,” I command. I grab the tear in her blouse and rip it open. There’s a hole about the size of a dime in her right shoulder. It's bleeding a lot but thankfully the blood is oozing, not spurting as it would if the bullet hit an artery. I gently turn her over and am thankful to see a slightly larger hole in her back. It's also bleeding but not gushing.
I reach in my pocket and grab the handkerchief Anna always insists I carry and cover the wound, applying pressure, causing Helen to scream and curse in a w
