by Amy Saia
Jesse screamed, too. He thought John had been shot. He came running to me, eyes incredulous. “What did you do, Emma!” He grabbed the gun from my trembling hands. “What the hell did you do?”
I shook my head, unable to speak, then pointed to the body across the way which had slumped to the concrete. Jesse jerked his head toward it, and gave an intake of breath. “Oh God.”
“I had to. He was going to shoot John.”
Yoko ran to her husband, crying in relief when he held up a hand to her.
“I’m okay, Mother, I’m okay.” He stared at the man, at the blood seeping out, and the gun falling loosely from a lifeless hand. Then he noticed me. “Fuckin-A, that chick just saved me life, I think.”
I started to cry. I’d shot someone. I’d killed.
And I’d saved.
With Yoko’s help, John stumbled to his feet. The gate was open now, and he walked into a little entrance to speak to the guard. Soon there came a blasting of distant sirens which made their way closer and closer until they were right in front of the apartments, with lights shooting painfully into my eyes.
Ambulance workers checked over the would-be killer’s body before placing it on a stretcher. As they sped away, someone came to take his gun off the sidewalk, then they came over to speak to me. I answered a million questions, not understanding what I was saying or doing. They asked me if I had known something. Why did I have a gun? Was this planned? What was my name, my age, my place of residence? It never stopped.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Jesse speaking to John. His face was excited, smiling. John stood listening with a cigarette in hand. Yoko smoked too, taking puffs of a long thin cigar with a dull expression on her face.
I relinquished my revolver to the police. Who needed it? Who wanted it? I was done with instruments of death. Take it away from me, please.
They said they’d call. There would be court dates and lawyers, newsmen. No, no reporters please. I didn’t want to be in the news. Please, I needed to go lie down. Let me go home.
I looked at Jesse again. He stood alone. John and Yoko had gone inside, and his expression of excitement was now one of anger. After the police left, he came to my side. “He said he doesn’t care, Emma! He doesn’t fucking care! He says he’s got a million kids out there, probably.” Jesse started crying. “Yoko said she’d send me a check. A fucking check! I don’t want their money!”
He glared up at the building for a long, angry moment. “I’ll show him. I’m going to make the best fucking album the world’s ever heard, and I’ll show him. He can’t ignore me then, right, Emma?”
I nodded. A dull pain grew in my abdomen, and in the next second a fountain of liquid warmth released from my crotch and spread down into my new jeans.
Jesse’s expression changed. He stared at my thighs. “Hey, how’d you get that guy’s blood on you? You weren’t even near him.”
Yes, yes, that’s what it was. Someone else’s blood. Not mine.
¤ ¤ ¤
The next morning after coming back from a local women’s clinic, I stood in the ornate shower stall at our room in the Plaza Hotel and watched blood seep down nonstop on little white tiles. They’d given me ibuprofen and a box of Kotex. I would bleed for weeks.
Jesse stood outside the bathroom, waiting. He hadn’t said much, but he appeared sorry, and I could tell it was sincere. He’d offered to buy me things, feed me, hold me, listen to me. But I had nothing to give. Only blood.
So many choices, right and wrong. So many I couldn’t take ownership of, and couldn’t accept.
I stood before the bathroom mirror and stared at myself for a long time. My stomach was flatter now, and I hated it. My pale yellow hair was stringy and lifeless. I hated it, too.
Jesse had left one of his rock magazines on the bathroom counter, and I stared, thinking hard. Look at all the hot girls with their spiky hair and black eyeliner. That’s what he liked. That’s what the world wanted.
William used to tell me, never cut your hair. Paul had called me Yellow Bird.
I was no longer theirs.
That Emma had died.
I took hold of the scissors Jesse had been using to cut holes in his jeans and held up a long section of my hair. Gold fell into the sink. Followed by more. Mountains and mountains of gold.
Acknowledgements
To my family and friends, my children especially for putting up with the early mornings and late, late nights. To my wonderful publisher for giving me another chance. I appreciate it so very much! To Summer Ross, my awesome editor, for being tough in all the right ways, but positive whenever I needed that too. To my mother, for her unending love and support. And to anyone who took the time to read the first book, leave a comment, and holler a hello—thank you.
About the Author
Amy Saia lives in Kansas where she keeps busy as a writer and musician. Her work has appeared in Haunted Waters Press as well as The Best of Vine Leaves Literary Journal 2012.
