My Friend (WIP)

It was late at night, ten o'clock or so. I wasn't doing anything in particular, just zoned out on the couch watching TV. I was about to go to bed when I heard a knock on my door.

I wasn't expecting anyone, so I had no idea who it could be. I walked into the vestibule to the door. My door is solid wood with no glass, so I couldn't see whomever was on the other side of it without opening it.

I slowly opened it to peek through, seeing a familiar face I swung the door ajar. It was my friend Anthony standing there. He was shirtless, shoe-less, and bloody with wounds and bruises all over his body. He had clamps with long chains attached to them on his wrists.

He could barely keep himself standing up. With a smirk on his face he asked,

"Mind if I come in?" I ushered him into the living room. He laid out in the couch, no doubt staining it with his blood. As if he read my mind, he said,

"Sorry about the couch," a wry smile appearing.

The look in his face wasn't one of a man with several injuries, but rather that of a man with a dull ache of pain.

Like his wounds were gone and only memories of them existed.

For anyone who didn't know him, this would seem strange, impossible even. But I've known him to exhibit this behavior before. It didn't take away from my amazement, but at least with expecting it I wasn't rendered speechless.

"I'll send you the bill for cleaning it," I joked. He chuckled as I went to my bathroom for medical supplies. I came back with a few towels, a bottle of peroxide, and two rolls of bandages.

"Do me a favor?" He asked me. I shrugged,

"Might as well, I'm already doing this," I said as I poured peroxide on a towel and pressed it on the gash on his stomach. He didn't even flinch as I pressed down.

He pulled up his pant leg up revealing a few bullet wounds. He did the same to his other pant leg.

"Take these out for me?" He said referring to the bullets.