Page 87 of I’m The Worst

“The bullet. Take it out.”

All the air leaves my lungs, making me dizzy.

“No…I don’t know how. I’ve never⁠—”

“I can’t.” He forces his eyes open just enough to find mine. “Shoulder’s fucked… head’s fucked—” His voice catches. “Can’t do it.”

I shake my head. This can’t be happening.

“I’m going to kill you if you die. Do you hear me? I swear to god⁠—”

His hand moves slowly as he presses a knife into my palm. “Need…alcohol… needle…” The directions fall apart before they’re even finished.

“Wolff?” My heart starts racing so fast my chest twinges. “Wolff—” I shake him harder this time. His head lolls with no resistance. “Oh my god— No— No, no, no⁠—”

Panic and dread collide inside me all at once as I get moving. “I can’t do this— I can’t⁠—”

Cabinets slap open under my hands, wood cracking against the wall as I search through everything I can find, things hitting the floor around me, breaking, scattering, my fingers grabbing blindly—anything, everything—vodka, a sewing kit, something that looks like it might work—anything that might keep him from dying on that couch.

When I get back, he hasn’t moved.

“Wolff… Wolff— WOLFF!”

His chest barely moves.

“No—no, no, no⁠—”

I tear at his clothes, fingers slipping as I try to get his jacket open. The zipper won’t move, clogged with blood, and I let out a broken sound and just rip, yanking it apart, shoving it off his shoulders.

“Wolff, stay with me. Just…stay with me.”

The shirt underneath is worse, almost black with blood. I grab it and pull, dragging it up his body, and it comes away wet and heavy⁠—

For half a second, I just stare.

Blood smeared across his entire torso. The deep bullet wound gushing blood.

“Oh my god…” Reaching over, I grab the knife.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper, even as I press the blade to his skin, my hand shaking so badly, it slips the second it touches him. More blood wells up instantly.

“Fuck—”

“Deeper.” His eyes aren’t even open.

“Wolff, please—” A sob rips out of me as I press harder, the blade slicing into him, and he doesn’t react—doesn’t even flinch. And that’s worse, so much worse than if he screamed.

“Tell me what to do! You have to tell me! Please, I can’t do this! I can’t fucking do this— Please wake up, please don’t leave me here… Don’t you dare leave me here⁠—”

He doesn’t move…

He doesn’t move.

I choke on another sob and grab the tweezers, shoving them into the wound. Metal scrapes against something solid⁠—

The bullet.

“Please—please—” My grip slips. Once. Twice. My vision blurs with unrelenting tears, hands trembling and making it nearly impossible to hold on. The third time, I catch it and pull back firmly. With the bullet in my grip, I take a breath.