His blood went into my mouth.

I couldn't believe it. As I watched the bus driver slump forward, his back riddled with holes, the blood-stained glass of his compartment glowing crimson in the sunlight, this was all that I could think about.

I could taste the blood, it had felt warm on my face but now, as the bus careened out of control over the kerb, now it felt cold. I clung to a pole as the broken windscreen sent a gale of cold, biting air into the bus; my face and hands stung by the millions of tiny shards of glass, flung into the wind like snowflakes in a blizzard.

The gunfire resumed as we collided with the bus shelter, I was flung into the luggage bay behind the drivers cabin. I heard every remaining window shatter, I heard terrified passengers crying for mercy, bullets thudded into plastic and richocheted from metal all around me. I heard the dreaded squelch of metal piercing flesh, cutting desperate screams short. All that I could hear was death and agony.

I lay in a foetal position, closed my eyes, and continued pondering just how, from such a distance, so much of the bus driver's blood had made it into my mouth.

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