Smelling of iron, the blood pooled, red and sticky. He tried to raise his head, but he was weak from the loss of blood. Well, the blood wasn’t actually lost; he knew exactly were it was—flowing out of him and onto the kitchen floor.
Loud and unbelievably violent, getting shot was nothing like TV. It hurt like hell. He puked and shat himself, thinking, “This is not happening.”
Then acceptance, followed by many regrets for things in life he should’ve done; a single regret for the one thing he shouldn’t have done. He should never have gifted her the gun.