Oh, Klahoma.

“Hah-” I huffed, clutching a hand over my green sweater. I could feel myself grinning. “You got me. Right in the side.”

José and his lady friend stepped back with visible shock written over their faces. Her little red purse lay at my feet, the smell of burning leather rising from the hole blown into the side of it. It swirled in my senses, lingering with the heavy scent of blood.

“You got me.” I repeated, a sudden wave of fear rushing over me. I suddenly felt sick with realization of what just transpired. I spoke again, voice cracking, “You got me.”

The pair turned and ran, José shouting obscenities at his friend who stumbled in her stiletto heels around the corner and into his beat up junk car. I stumbled back right as the vehicle spun out and around the street, tires squealing.

“Oh yikes.” I breathed, feeling the sudden warmth oozing from my fingers and down my thigh. Wasn’t this supposed to be the part where I went into shock? Where a sudden wave of adrenaline motivated me forward? Wasn’t my survival instincts supposed to kick in? I was grossly aware of the gaping wound in my left side. So disgustingly aware I felt like gagging at the sensation of my open skin. This had been too quick. Far too quick.

José had been struggling with his drug payments--I had known that. Everyone working downtown knew that. When him and his blonde bimbo had appeared behind the video store I was resting behind, arguing about how he’d meet his next deadline, I had wanted to help. José had been a decent man to me, he’d always been respectful of my area. So when I walked around the corner and grabbed a hold of his arm to tell him to quiet down before security came outside the last thing I had expected was a swinging purse with a hidden gun inside that had the safety off. I don’t think she expected it either. Stupid whore, carrying a weapon like that so blase, she was asking for an accident to happen--and it did.

I took a hard step forward not quite knowing which direction to go. My clothes were wet against my waist and thigh, revoltingly sticky with blood. I tried to think of what direction the hospital was, or the nearest phone. The video store’s fluorescent light splayed out across the sidewalk, glowing faintly from the back. I pressed my hand against the wall, steadying myself as I attempted to walk around to the front of the store and alert the security guard I needed help.

A wave of vertigo hit me and I hissed, falling to my knees. The pain didn’t even register in my head. I slumped to the side against the dumpster, shakily breathing out. My hand was still pressed hard into my waist, I was too afraid to pull it away. The thought made me dry heave--I had always been squeamish around blood or mortal wounds. Faced with my own I felt as if I could vomit.

“Oh you’ve done it this time Adriana. You really have.” I spoke to the crisp night air, curling deeper around myself. All motivation to stand and seek help was draining out of me at a pace I didn’t care to keep up with. Had I not contemplated ending my own life to spare myself from the streets every day up until this point? A twinge of sadness resonated through me. Perhaps I was upset because this way I hadn’t been prepared for.

With suicide the ending is known. I would’ve had time to say my goodbyes to the strays I fed, or to dress up nicely. I could’ve died on the riverbank, or perhaps even under the bridge just off the highway. I could’ve left some form of identification on myself, so they could’ve at least held a memorial for me. I was at least worthy of that, wasn’t I?

I can’t be too upset. Not with this ending. This is a form of mercy, I suppose. I’ve contributed so very little to this tiny Oklahoma town. I had an alright home life, so for me to throw away my own potential by ending up on the streets as a second-rate prostitute seemed like a waste of existence. I could’ve had an average life if I’d cared more, so maybe this was what I deserved.

“Oh, jeez. Oh man, that hurts.” I hissed, a dull ache resounding throughout my side. I curled deeper into the side of the dumpster, suddenly realizing I was cold. I breathed in deeply, pain crashing into me again and numbing my mouth. A tingling sensation was creeping up into my feet. Anxiety and acceptance battled inside me forcing their way out as tears in my eyes.

This was it. I knew it was. I’d become another cold case statistic. This small town sheriff’s department would probably never piece together what had happened. An unidentified woman laid up against a back alley dumpster, a smoking purse mere feet from her. Had it been a drug deal gone wrong? A lovers quarrel? Maybe even a crime of passion?

I chuckled lowly, and then winced at the pain it caused. The tingling had grown up into my thighs now, intermingling with the warm and cold sensation of wet blood hitting the chilly Midwest air. It would be minutes now, I was sure of it.

“Lord, forgive me.” I breathed, accepting that this was ultimately what I deserved. To be absorbed into the Earth and forgotten among its inhabitants. An uneventful, miserable life that could’ve been more. A deep, wallowing sadness enveloped me. Regret rising like bile in my throat.

Hot tears ran down my face as I realized that I no longer felt pain from my side. The tingling had climbed its way up my face and wrapped around my ears like cold hands. I curled deeper into the dumpster, pressing my face into its cold metal and sighing deeply as a wave of drowsiness hit me. This was it. The finale. Breathing out once more, I swallowed a hiccuping sob and allowed sleep to overcome me for one, final time.