I Didn’t Kill Him

Exhausted, I fall to my knees. It’s over. The adrenaline that flooded my brain and body during the fight is gone, and with it, my motivation to move.

“You idiot!” My brother runs up to me but slows as he eyes the body on the ground. He’s not dead. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t. “What were you thinking?”

I try to shrug, but my shoulders don’t want to work. My body doesn’t want to work. “He had a knife,” I say simply. “He was going to hurt that girl.” I look around, but the girl is gone. Probably took off during the fight. Oh, well. Can’t blame her for that.

“So instead, he hurt you!”

Did he? I can’t focus. Nothing hurts. Everything hurts. He hurt me. I stopped him. I didn’t kill him, though. He’s not dead. “It’s not that bad,” I say finally.

“That’s a knife,” Nate says, pointing. “It’s sticking out of your shoulder.” I look at my right shoulder, and, sure enough, there is a knife, his knife, sticking out of it. Well, the handle, anyway. I don’t see much of the blade.

“Oh!” I say in surprise. I guess he did hurt me. But I stopped him. But he isn’t dead. I glance back at the guy lying in the street behind me. There are a handful of people around. Probably came from the bar. One lady screams. A guy curses. Potty mouth. I can hear sirens in the distance.

“What do we do, Tyler?” my brother asks, on the verge of panic. Maybe I should be panicking too. But I feel very calm. Maybe that’s the alcohol. Or maybe it’s the blood loss. Oh, yeah, I was stabbed. He stabbed me. But I didn’t kill him. “It was self-defense, right?” my brother continues. “Or defense of another person. Is that a thing? Can they arrest you for that?”

I try to lean back on my hands, but my arms won’t hold me. Probably something to do with the knife in my shoulder. Instead, I fall back, and my head hits the curb. That should probably hurt, but it doesn’t.

The buildings around the alley surround us, tower over us. The music from the bar is faint, but I can feel the vibration of the bass in my chest. The stink of cigarettes is heavy in the air. There are more people, more screams, more curses, more sirens. Are they closer now, or further away?

“Maybe we should get out of here,” Nate says. “Or would that make it worse? Would that make us look guilty?”

Guilty of what? All I did was shove that guy. Pushed him away from the girl he was threatening. He’s not dead. I didn’t kill him.

I can see the stars. Unusual, in this city. They’re faint, but then, so is everything else right now. Until flashing lights appear. Those aren’t faint. They’re bright. Too bright.

I wince as a deep, booming voice joins the flashing lights. “What happened here?”

My brother talks, and I catch a few words among his panicked dribble – “knife,” “girl,” “shoulder,” “dead.”

Another man, not the loud one, kneels next to me and touches my shoulder gently. “You’re pretty brave. Or stupid,” he says. “Unfortunately for that guy. Guess he won’t be terrorizing any more women, though.”

I guess not. Wouldn’t want to risk another person like me stopping him. Because he’s not dead. I didn’t kill him.