Page 147 of A Breath of Life
He wasn’t bleeding.
There was no blood.
Where was the fucking blood?
He gasped. Wheezed. The skin under his eyes and around his lips turned purple. He shifted his attention to the ceiling, his expression distant and unfocused.
“No. No, Tallus.”
No blood. No blood. But he was shot.
My brain malfunctioned as I peeled his hands from his shirt and discovered a distinct bullet hole through the fabric.
No blood. No blood no blood no blood no blood.
Why was there… Where was the…
I ripped the shirt open. An undershirt. Another hole. I tore it from his body as well and staggered at the discovery. A vest. He wore a fucking vest.
No blood.
A vest.
I touched it like it wasn’t real. Noted the indent from the close-range shot and moved my finger to the tiny crevice over his heart. Tallus found my hand and squeezed. Our eyes locked, his fading in and out of focus.
He wasn’t going to die, but he wasn’t able to breathe. That much was clear.
I understood now.
I cradled his face and coached him, offering soothing words and reassurance. “Don’t panic. It will make it worse. You got the wind knocked out of you. That’s all. Slow breaths. In and out. Copy me.” I showed him, knowing distinctly what it was like to be hit so hard you couldn’t breathe. The terror was real.
Multiple things happened at once. The church door behind us burst open as a group of armed, riot-clad officers barreled inside. The receptionist at 9-1-1 asked over and over, “Hello? Are you there?” and Tallus’s diaphragm finally stopped spasming, allowing him to suck tiny gulps of air into his thirsty lungs. His color didn’t improve, but it was something.
“That’s it. A little at a time. It’ll get better. Trust me.” I stroked his cheek, wishing I could take away the fear and pain in his eyes. “I love you, Tallus. I love you. I love you so fucking much.”
My attention drifted to the indent in the vest more than once. An indent that sat over his heart. He would have died.
The room spun at the thought, and it took effort to concentrate and not tumble down a pit of what-ifs.
Two uniforms crouched beside Tallus, checking him over.
“He needs an ambulance.” The anguished voice belonged to me.
“We have one outside. I’ll send for a paramedic,” one officer said.
Before the guy got to his feet, I shook my head. “No. I’ll take him.”
Carefully, cautiously, I cradled Tallus in my arms like he was the most fragile, most precious thing on earth—and he was. To me, he was. The officer helped me to my feet and walked with us outside, guiding me in the right direction.
Tallus’s breathing improved slightly, but he continued to wheeze and clutch his chest. Pain radiated across his face, and his attention kept slipping. His lips remained blue.
“It’s okay. We’ll get you help. I’m here with you. Always, Tallus. Always.”
I didn’t want to hand him off to strangers, no matter how capable or qualified. I wanted to keep him in my arms, against my chest.
Reluctantly, I laid him on a gurney and let the professionals evaluate him. To the officer who’d accompanied me, I asked, “Did you get them?”
“We’ve made arrests.”
