i'm at the 7-11.  guy, dressed all in black, rushes in.  was he wearing a facemask?  hard to say.  commotion.  mostly i know what's going on by feeling how nervous the lady at the cash register is.  she is stessed out.  gunshots.  one hits me.  my clothes are becoming soaked.  i worry about this.  i cherish my clothes - mostly my shirts.  it is not easy to find good clothes in this town.  i am on the ground, sitting.  i've leaned up against an a display..it's mostly filled with junk food. i worry about getting some of my blood on the junk food.  i hear voices, a nice and well-intentioned lady, straight black hair, in primarily purple. "don't give up.  hang in there."  a girl, about 17 - she has white hair. unusual, i think. "i've called an ambulance."

i recognize these voices as irrelevant to me. they are not talking to me.  they are talking at me. they are talking to their image of me, what they wish me to be.  they want to express themselves as the givers of hope.  they don't know me.

i am not fighting.  i think about my life, all the decisions i've made that don't help me.
i think about how the rules of consciousness apply, no matter where you are.  there are no wrongs and rights, but the rules still apply.  you can ignore them, but it doesn't get you anywhere.  if you're fucked you're fucked.  ignoring them long enough doesn't make you unfucked.
i think about my afterlife.
time to get to reason. my afterlife will not be particularly better than this one.  we go through what we carry through.  i have not deserved it, but karma doesn't make exceptions for being a nice guy.
i do not want to care.   i want to let go, now.  i don't even want to worry about the dangers of unraveling in complete haphazard.  i want to completely let go. i want it over.  what happens will happen. nothing could be worse than my life.

a 15-year-old, fairly pretty hair.  an okay face, rather pale, somewhat wide cheekbones, etc.  wearing lipstick, but it doesn't look too unnatural on her. i guess she knows her lipstick.  she's with two other girls, seemingly younger than she; or if she's not, she's temporarily chosen to associate with them.  (one is dirty blond, straight hair.)
at her angle of stance, she seems to be looming over me.
"He wants to die."

children are like that.  they are brave, but they lack in compassion.  it is a message for her peers. she's talking about me - not at me. i feel disrespect. i don't need to die like this.  i get up, and walk to the other side of the store. i  lean up against a different display. i'm facing toward the wall.  drinks, icecream, and microwaveable meals.  and even a delapitated microwave, grey&black -- somewhere off to my left.
i want to die now.  i don't have the choice..
usual time for a shot-wound to the gut is 8-14 days.