Extraction
You drive all the way back home, blasting music.
You felt a little better now, after crying it all out for the first time in what felt like years. You haven't cried that hard since... a while ago, it felt nice. You felt nice. You were fine.
You trudged into your apartment, slamming and locking the door behind you.
Your arm hurt like hell.
You had to extract the bullet and you didn't want to, you just wanted to curl up and go to sleep.
You went to the bathroom, pretty confident you could get this bullet out yourself, you had enough medical training, didn't you?
You pull off your suit with difficultly, considering your hurt arm.
You then pulled out some numbing alcohol, cotton swabs, and tweezers from the cabinet.
It will be old-fashioned and will hurt like hell, but this is what you had to do.
You sat down on the toilet with the cotton swabs, pouring some of the alcohol onto the wound. It stung, really bad. You wince, biting your lip. It was excruciating.
You use the tweezers to pull the tissue back, taking deep breaths. You tried to get a better view of what you were doing, twisting your arm and nearly crying again. Thankfully, the bullet hadn't gone too deep, and you could pull it out with the tweezers, making noises of pain the entire time. You tossed the bloody bullet onto the counter and grabbed some gauze out of the cabinet hurriedly, wrapping it around your arm without cleaning the wound. You'd do that later. You're too tired for now.
You stare at the bullet for a bit afterwards, breathing heavily. You'd clean this up later, too.
You go to your bedroom, looking in your drawer for your little blade. It wasn't there. You knew you put it there last. Where the hell was it?
You wanted to cut your thighs some more right now -- a lot more.
You closed the drawer and scanned your eyes over the room briefly before thinking about your pocket knife, looking at the shelf it was kept. It wasn't there. Where the hell was your pocket knife?
Fuck.
You angerly change into your pajamas, again, reminding yourself that you would change the gauze around your thighs later. You climbed into bed, feeling more than prickly.
Your skin felt too tight, too suffocating. You grimaced and scratched your forearms, trying to breathe clearly.
Your phone buzzed on your nightstand -- a sound that felt far too loud, far too aggravating.
You reached over for your phone, seeing a text pop up onto your screen.
I saw the bullet wound. Should I be concerned?
It was from Tony.
You ignore it, tossing your phone, perhaps a bit too carelessly, back onto the nightstand, only for it to roll and topple to the floor. You don't bother picking it up.
You roll over onto your side and squeeze your eyes shut.