My eyes were opened yet I remained in bed peering out from under the cover at the streak of light reflecting through the crack in the door. Yet, as I was lying in bed, I was suddenly made aware of what had happened a forth night ago. It was the wee hours of the morning; not quite bright enough, the sun hadn’t as yet risen. I directed my eyes toward the window; the drapery and blinds had been parted and raised, respectively. I looked into the darkness, but turned away ignoble. Then I raised my torso until my arms came to rest on my knees.
I threw the covers off of my legs, and gently lowered them to the floor. Then I stood up.
I began walking across the floor of my one-bedroom apartment, headed for the bathroom; and then, making sure that the blinds and drapery were fully closed before I entered the bathroom.
I felt dazed. I looked into the mirror, checking the soreness underneath my left eye. The blood clot was still there; I used my fingers to pry open the flesh wound wider than it was. Once satisfied with my eye, I stooped down and turned on the nozzle of the showerhead. The water began jettisoning through the showerhead.
I took off my pajamas and placed them on the hamper. Then I stepped into the shower.
A forth night ago I was asleep in my one-bedroom apartment when a spray of gunfire rang out into the night time atmosphere. It was the wee hours of the morning; still dark, when I heard car tires screeched to a halt, outside, followed by the ring of gunfire in which one of the bullets ricocheted from an object and entered the living area; my bedroom is adjacent to the living area. The bullet creased the side of my face just below the eye, causing the flesh wound. Blood was spewing from the wound; some of the blood had dried; yet, this trickling of blood was flowing over the tracks that the blood had made.
Frantically, I rummaged through the medicine cabinet and brought a roll of gauze and a bottle of iodine out; and then, applied the stinging solution directly onto the wound of my face.
I frowned.
Once I had bandaged up the wound, I began preparing myself for my daily itinerary. I looked like a wounded soldier with my head wrapped snugly in the gauze.
When I was fully dressed, I stepped out of my apartment and walked a circuitous route to the store. I had just moved into the West End Community of Atlanta, Georgia.
At the store, I was the first arrival; the attendant was seated behind the counter. I selected my item and took it to the counter.
The store owner looked surprise. “What happened to you?” He asked.
“Nothing; just another isolated incident,” I answered.
I paid for my item and left the store.
The End.