[ WP ] In a life or death situation , A man falls . ( Life or death ? )

“ Thank you for saveing me mister russly. ” 
 
 David read the note again. 
 
 “ Thank you for saveing me mister russly. ” 
 
 The sentiment was written in blue crayon, and the letters had been formed from the remarkable mechanical inconsistency that only children writing in crayon have mastered. Accompanying the words were a set of stick figures acting out what David would have guessed to be Hamlet, if he hadn ’ t been one of the figures depicted. The way the blood spurted from a thin, black line was comical really; stick figures didn ’ t need to abide by the laws of conservation apparently. He stared at this picture that sat in his lap – that had been sitting in his lap for the last four hours – scanning over the images and the words again and again. The crude, simple letter of thanks should have been heartwarming, but he was sick of it. 
 
 Here he was, David Russly, a 35 year old single man who had made his living, quite successfully, as a personal fitness trainer and he couldn ’ t even move a simple scrap of paper. It taunted him, resting upon his lap only inches from his hands, his stupid, useless, dead hands. Again he tried to grab the note and toss it away – to the table, to the floor, anywhere! – and again his hands lay peacefully crossed, not feeling the blanket that they touched. His entire body was like that now: hands, arms, legs, cock, toes, shoulders, and everything else below his neck. Meanwhile his stick-figure self valiantly dove across the page before him. 
 
 It had been an entire week since the accident, but only two days since visitors were allowed. Already several dozens had been through, each with their cheerful expressions of gratitude. The local news had for a short interview, and various town officials had poured more honors and accolades upon him than he would ’ ve thought possible. David Russly was a hero; the bullet had lodged itself in his spine instead of the six year old girl ’ s. They had shown him the footage from the store camera, and he had to admit, the whole deal was rather convincing. 
 
 The camera was situated above the checkout counter, skewed so as to view the door and a few gas pumps beyond: the perfect angle for the action. Immediately David had been able to identify himself, the Boston Red Sox cap in aisle two. After a few seconds of nothing more than milling and perusing customers a man in boots and a trench coat – clichéd but effective – struts into view, opens the door, and unholsters his handgun. The clerk in the video shoots his hands to the sky and several customers snap their heads around to get a look at the excitement. 
 
 At this point the man starts to shoot. You see, he wasn ’ t there to rob the store or its people. That just wasn ’ t his kind of business. He dealt in Crazy. The kind you can only get from a troubled childhood and spending too much time reading everything except the self-help section. His first shot takes the clerk in the shoulder, his second goes wide, and by the third everyone in the store has taken cover. Well, everyone except Gracie. She just stood there, eyes wide and lips trembling. Even though the feed was in real time David would swear that it slows down as the gunman turns, his eyes a different sort of wide, and aims at the girl. Suddenly the David Russly on camera leaps from aisle two, heroically putting his body in the path of the bullet. Then the feed speeds back up and another man, a client from off-screen, unleashes his own.22 and takes the assailant dead in the temple. God Bless America. 
 
 But David Russly wasn ’ t a hero; he knew that. He didn ’ t dive forward. Amongst the commotion he had tangled – an action now forever lost to him – his feet and valiantly fallen in front of the girl. It was an accident, simple as that. And if he could go back, alter his balance, and leave Gracie exposed to the line of fire, he would. He would let the girl die just to have his body back. 
 
 Alone in his hospital room, David Russly wept into the hands that lay dead at his side. 

