Nixon shot him.
He wailed, cried, expressed his pain, his fear via vowels. But Jon left, without saying anything except that Al could go home, but Nixon lied and shot him, shot him, attempted to kill him. As Jon walked out of the door and closed it, Al should've felt relief, but all he felt was fear. It was the uncertainty of the wound. It was being alone, dying alone, being left alone.
Alessio slowly walked to his flashlight to look at the wound. It was bloody.
This wound now made his scarred hand look like nothing at all. Pain. Pain. Michael beating him was nothing compared to this mess.
He looked in the medical kit. Aspirin and ibuprofen. Lots of others stuff to clean the wound. He had no idea how to deal with a gunshot wound, though. Treat it the same as a different kind of injury? Treat it like a scratch? Was there another choice? No, there wasn't. So he bandaged it up like it was told to him in first aid class.
He was alive. He was not dying from this if he takes care of it. He needed to focus, gotta get a grip and stop being a whiner.
After taking care of the wound, he decided that he shouldn't worry about it anymore and take some sleep. Time will heal it. He didn't bother to turn out his flashlight. He was afraid of the dark, tonight.
Then, he woke up, it was still dark, sleeping with a bullet in his body felt strange, painful. He tried to sleep or at least nap for a couple of seconds but he just blankly stared at the ceiling of the cafeteria. The pain was distracting. After falling asleep again, he woke up when it felt like dawn to him. He stood up and eyed his surroundings. His flashlight and shamshir still lying on the floor. He found the gun he dropped after being shot.
He took a snack from his backpack, picked up the sword, gun and flashlight and left this place.
((Alessio Rigano continued in Overkill