april in may

i just came across this in my hard drive as i was working on my dissertation (oh, ok, as i was watching alias!). it intrigues me that i even wrote this. i guess i was trying something new? it's pretty interesting, especially considering how, um, it doesn't really fit in with my oeuvre, to date at least (i'm practicing for my reluctant but inevitable move to paris). anyway, i hope you enjoy it and give me comments (yeah right. you guys only care about the quizzes... but that's cool).

He felt the hot sting of the bullet turn cold as it ripped through layers, first flesh, then bone, then finally nestling into one of those organs tucked beneath his ribcage for safekeeping. I don't know, maybe the bullet and I can make peace, he thought. Maybe we can grow old together. He tried to smile at this idea, thinking it perfectly reasonable, but the faces on the people gathered around him did not look reassured. He felt a pool of warm blood forming in the hole the bullet had made and had the strange urge to take off his shoes and wade around in it. He was having trouble making sense of things. He couldn't seem to prevent absurd thoughts from entering his consciousness: Am I seeing myself or being myself? It was like a dream. He tried to ask the people around him if he was still the same size, or if perhaps he was actually changing size. He felt like he could see more but was he bigger? Smaller, even? When he tried to talk he began choking; a pool of warmth was collecting there, as well, and the faces around him did not seem comforted by his confused but well-meaning sputters. As moments passed that seemed to take forever he thought about the rapidly decreasing responsiveness of his body and considered the likelihood that he may never again feel anything. I may never see faces again. The thought occurred to him with a feeling of dulled surprise, and he started trying to remember all the things he had seen in his life, panicking suddenly at the thought that he had no idea what was next, trying to hold on to everything he knew and loved, or hated. The knowing was what he was afraid of losing, more than the loving or hating. As moments continued to pass, seeming to pass much more quickly now, he felt hands trying to hold his body down as his self, the perceptive him, began floating farther and farther away. Where are you going? he tried to scream. Where am I going? The last thing he felt was the gravel on the back of his neck and the last thing he thought about was a vacation he had taken with his fiance last spring. April in May, he laughed, and let go of the panic to slip finally into the unknown.