The Shot
Copyright© 2025 by Heel
Chapter 1
Tara’s apartment was silent except for the low hum of the city beyond her windows. After a long day of listening—patient’s confessions, tangled pain—she finally had a moment to breathe. She crossed the room barefoot, tea forgotten on the table, and stood by the window.
The night air pressed faintly against the glass. She gazed out for a moment, then turned away, stretching her arms behind her back until she felt the satisfying pull of her muscles.
That was when it happened.
A sharp crack split the air. Something slammed into her back—hard enough to steal her breath.
Tara froze, eyes wide. For a moment, she didn’t understand. There was no context, no sense. Just the echo of the sound and the violent jolt through her body.
What was that? she thought wildly. Did something explode? Did the window shatter?
She looked down, expecting to see nothing at all—and instead saw the faint stain blooming across her shirt.
Then the pain hit. A deep, searing, unnatural pain that radiated outward like fire spreading under her skin.
“Oh—God—” she gasped, her mind reeling. “I’ve been—”
The word caught in her throat. Shot.
The thought felt absurd, impossible, something that didn’t belong in her quiet apartment. People like her weren’t shot. Not here. Not now.
Her legs trembled, her mind stumbling over the facts. The angle, the window—she’d had her back turned. Someone had fired from outside. A sniper. She thought the bullet had been slowed down by something.
The pain sharpened, drilling into the center of her spine. She tried to straighten, but the movement sent a stabbing burst of agony down her ribs and into her legs.
Something was wrong—terribly wrong. It wasn’t just a wound. The pain had a structure to it, deep and mechanical, like something had splintered inside her.
Her hands twitched, trying to reach back, but even the thought of turning made her vision swim.
Spinal trauma, her clinical mind whispered. Thoracic vertebra, maybe lumbar. Fracture. Possible cord involvement.
Her breath hitched. If the vertebra was broken, any wrong movement could paralyze her—or worse.
Her pulse surged. If they’d shot once, they could shoot again.
She didn’t dare move. The glass behind her suddenly felt like an open target on her spine. Panic clawed at her chest, but she couldn’t fall. Her body refused to collapse, locked in shock and pain. Every breath sent a spike of agony through her back, and she realized with clinical horror that something in her spine was broken, unstable.
Don’t move. You can’t move.
She needed to lie down. To call for help. But the sofa was too far; every step could turn the fracture into paralysis.
Still, she had to get out of the line of fire. Slowly, with trembling control, she began to edge sideways, keeping her back rigid, her head down, praying she wouldn’t feel another shot tear through her.
The phone sat on the coffee table—just a few feet away, but it looked like a mile.
Her breathing was shallow now. Sweat mixed with blood at her back. The quiet outside felt enormous.
She braced herself against the wall, body shaking, heart pounding in disbelief.
How could this be happening?
In her own home.
Without warning.
Without reason.
Her breath came in short, uneven bursts. Every second upright felt impossible. Her legs began to cramp, trembling under her weight. She could feel them giving out, the muscles spasming from pain and shock.
She had to get lower—to the ground, to safety—but she didn’t know how.
Her hands pressed against the wall, slick with sweat. She tried to bend her knees, just enough to ease herself down, but the moment she shifted her weight, white-hot pain shot through her spine. The world tilted. A raw sound escaped her throat before she could stop it.
“No—no—no,” she whispered, teeth clenched. “Stay still. You have to stay still.”
Her training fought with her panic. She knew spinal trauma. She knew what could happen if the fracture shifted. But her body didn’t care about knowledge—it was screaming to move, to escape, to do something.
She tried again, slower this time, inching downward, but her back muscles locked in violent protest. Her legs seized again, cramping so hard she nearly lost balance. The pain made her dizzy.
Her vision blurred. A haze crept at the edges of her sight.
She forced herself to breathe. You’re in shock. Focus. Don’t faint. If you faint, you fall.
But she could feel it happening—the trembling spreading through her limbs, her body’s desperate rebellion against stillness. Her knees quivered, her shoulders shook. She wasn’t sure how long she could stay upright.
The sofa was still out of reach. The phone sat silent across the room, taunting her with its nearness.
“Please,” she whispered, not even sure to whom. “Just let me get to it...”
Another cramp seized her calf, twisting it painfully. She gasped, her body jerking before she caught herself. A spark of agony flared in her back.
She pressed her forehead against the cool wall, trembling. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
She couldn’t kneel. She couldn’t bend. Her own body had become a fragile cage she dared not move within.
Somewhere outside, a car passed on the street—normal life, utterly indifferent.
She wanted to cry, but even that small movement might hurt her. So she just stood there, shaking, half upright, half collapsing, trapped between pain and fear, willing herself to survive long enough to make a single call.
Part II The phone sat on the coffee table, glowing faintly in the dark—a lifeline just out of reach.
Tara stared at it, her vision swimming, the edges of the room wavering as if underwater. It was only a few steps away, maybe three—but to her, it looked like a mountain.
She couldn’t stay standing much longer. Her muscles screamed. Her spine burned. Every nerve in her body warned her that even the smallest movement might be her last.
But you have to try, she told herself. You have to move. Carefully.
She pressed one hand against the wall for balance and shifted her foot an inch forward. The pain knifed up her back instantly, white and blinding. She almost cried out but bit it down, panting through her teeth.
“Slow,” she whispered. “Slow, Tara. Don’t twist.”
She took another shallow step. Her balance wavered. Her vision pulsed with darkness at the edges.
Her knees bent, unintentionally, and she felt the fracture in her spine grind—just a whisper of movement, but it sent a shudder of terror through her. She froze, shaking, fighting nausea.
The world narrowed to her breath and the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Every other sound—traffic, footsteps outside, the city’s heartbeat—had vanished.
Her body wanted to collapse. Her mind wanted to scream. But she forced herself forward, inch by inch.
When she reached the arm of the sofa, she stopped, gripping it with both hands. Her fingers were slick with sweat and blood. She could feel herself fading.
The phone was right there on the coffee table. Two feet away.
It might as well have been miles.
She couldn’t bend to reach it. Her spine was too unstable. Even leaning forward could be fatal.
Her eyes darted around. There—a pen on the end table. Close enough to reach if she stretched carefully.
She slid her hand across the cushion, trembling, until her fingertips brushed the pen. She hooked it awkwardly and dragged it toward her. Then, using it like an extension of her hand, she nudged the phone closer—slowly, painfully slowly.
The pen slipped once, clattering against the table. She froze, pulse spiking, terrified of the next shot that never came.
When she finally got the phone to the edge, she caught it with shaking fingers and nearly dropped it. Her thumb fumbled across the screen, smearing it red. The screen lit up, too bright, too sharp.
She could barely focus her eyes, but she pressed the emergency number by memory. A moment later, a calm voice answered.
“Emergency services. What is your emergency?”
“Please...” Her voice was hoarse, uneven. “I’ve been shot. My back—my spine—it’s broken. I can’t move.”
“Stay calm, ma’am. What’s your address?”
Tara’s mind blanked for a moment. The simplest thing—her own address—felt unreachable through the fog of pain.
She forced the words out slowly, between breaths. “Thirteen ... Linden ... Court. Apartment... 4B.”
The operator repeated it back. Tara nodded weakly, though they couldn’t see her.
“All right, ma’am. Help is on the way. Don’t move. Stay as still as you can.”
“I—I’m trying...” she whispered. Her voice shook, her breath hitching between words. “Please hurry.”
She slid down just slightly against the arm of the sofa, careful not to twist. The phone rested on her chest, the operator’s voice still murmuring in her ear.
Her gaze drifted toward the window—still open to the night, the darkness beyond it silent and unknowable.
Her body trembled, locked in pain and fear, but she clung to one thought: They’re coming. Just stay still until they get here.
Outside, the city remained indifferent.
Inside, Tara clung to the edge of consciousness, one breath and one heartbeat away from stillness.
Part III The voice on the emergency line was fading in and out, distant and unreal, when Tara heard it— the faint jingle of keys at her door.
Her mind stuttered. No—no one could be here. Not now.
The lock turned.
“Tara?”
Her heart lurched painfully. Michael.
The door swung open, light spilling into the apartment. He stepped inside, smiling, unaware. “I thought I’d surprise you—”
Then he saw her.
His smile vanished. The keys slipped from his hand and hit the floor.
“Tara! Oh my God—Tara!”
She wanted to speak, to tell him don’t come closer, to warn him don’t touch me—but her throat closed. No words came. Her mouth moved uselessly as her breath shuddered out.
He rushed to her side, catching her by the arms before she could sway.
“What happened? You’re bleeding—oh, Jesus—”
She tried to shake her head. Just a fraction.
Don’t ... But it was too late.
Michael pulled her against him, desperate to hold her— and that movement was enough to break her.
Pain exploded through her spine, a sharp, tearing burst that turned the world white. She couldn’t even scream—only a strangled breath escaped her lips.
Something inside her gave way. Her legs folded uselessly beneath her, and she collapsed into him, her weight dead and heavy. She felt it—felt the deep, silent break where her body ended and fear began.
“Tara? Tara, what—?” Michael’s voice cracked. “Oh God, what did I do? Tara!”
She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t feel her legs anymore. The pain was gone—replaced by a terrifying emptiness spreading through her lower body.
The phone slipped from her hand and hit the floor, the operator’s voice spilling faintly from the speaker:
“Sir—sir, do not move her! Sir, listen to me—stay still!”
Michael froze, trembling. “Oh no ... no no no no...” He looked down at her face, at the stillness in her eyes, horror dawning in waves.
“Tara, please—look at me—please—”