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It only takes two bullets to change a life.
One lodges itself in Juliet’s spine and propels her forward into a brick wall. Encased in plaster, eyes fixed like dead stars upon the ceiling, she listens to the platitudes of others and bears the weight of Shawn’s kisses until her eternal perkiness snaps. She pushes them all away – the pandering protection of Shawn, the awkward blandishments of the rest of the gang – and learns how to use a walker, a cane, a prosthetic. She pours her pain and sweat into her work, fills in the holes that way, becomes good at pretending toughness, then collapsing against the exterior wall, face tucked white with pain.
One lodges itself into the wall behind Carlton’s head, missing by inches thanks to a spectacular saving dive by Shawn Spencer. The first words he hears when he comes to are Shawn’s proclaiment that it’s a miracle he’s alive. They’re words that haunt him when he learns about O’Hara’s temporary paralysis and her slow climb toward health. His endless hectoring and pushing of Juliet countermands Guster’s constant tears, Shawn’s hacky, jokey attempts at stirring a smile over, Henry’s blustering well-meaning. She needs an unsmiling voice in the back of her head directing her toward tough
His concern for her covers well his own flaws.
How he shudders and cowers back from loud noises for a second, and the way he flinches at the sight of a gutshot perp. Marlowe hears his night terrors and holds him, brow furrowed, then bright-eyed and game to pretend he’d never made a sound. He swallows the bitter dregs of iit down and goes on.
So you see, it only take two bullets to change a life.
One to wound, the other to remember.