100 words: A Bullet

When I got shot in the head I didn't think about the pain or damage to my brain or the number of operations and stitches it would take to patch me back up. Hospitals and physical therapy clinics didn't occur to me. The gauge of the bullet and make of the gun did not concern me any more than the identity of the shooter himself. I didn't concern myself with the healing process or the embarrassment of scars and sores. My life didn't flash before my eyes. None of these things happened or concerned me. Mostly because I was dead.