“SIR, SIR, PLEASE STAY SEATED!” one of the EMTs yelled. Martin had immediately started swinging on them when they hit him with a shot of narcan. “It’s fine,” the loud cop said, almost laughing. “Junkies always wake up mad if you take their high away.” I despised Martin more than anyone, but had to resist the urge to slap the officer for referring to him as a junkie. Martin was moving, though. He wasn’t dead. Was I relieved, or just a bit disappointed? I sat in the living room, trying to stay out of the way. I watched the EMTs emerge from my bedroom, wheeling out a sit-up stretcher. Martin was strapped into it, with blood red vomit splattered all over his chin and neck, as well as the front of his shirt. The EMTs told me which hospital they were taking him to, but I didn’t care. I had been through enough. I spent the rest of the day cleaning, stripping the sheets off of my bed, and tossing them into the garbage. I took Flapjack on a long walk. She really deserved it. I ended my day going to Brendees, the dive bar where I knew I would always see at least one familiar face. This is what made Brendees such a safe haven for me: I could never truly be alone there. I sat and drank my rum and coke, which was way too generously poured by the bartender, who knew I had had a rough day. That’s when I saw my friend Micah walk through the front door. He told me he saw Martin, covered in what appeared to be blood, getting wheeled out of my apartment, which was surrounded by cop cars. When he asked me if Martin was going to press charges against me, I realized he thought I had hit my breaking point and beat the living snot out of him. I smiled at Micah. “I sure hope not! Do you know how expensive lawyers are?” Micah laughed. I’m not sure if he realized what had really happened, but he didn’t say anything else about it, and I didn’t dispute the idea of it either. He and I both knew I was tired of being terrified. Maybe I was more terrified of what I could have become.
The Sun Sign by Luis Felipe Marques 18
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