There it was: in the middle of Frankie's forehead was a bullet wound, the size of a dime. The wound was sealed by the burnt brain matter, cauterized by the gunpowder. Frankie stared at it from the mirror inside the bathroom. The lights were off, but it was already bright. The moon was in full radiance. He wanted to turn on the lights, but something told him that it was a bad idea.
The bullet must have been a dud. Frankie reckoned that it had a scant amount of gunpowder: it had enough force to pierce through his skull without breaking it, but not enough to create a fatal exit wound on the back of his skull. His brain was very well intact. The bullet swam between his left hemisphere and right hemisphere.
He turned the "C" knob on the sink which spewed ice-cold rusting water. He reached out and cupped his hands but didn't feel the chilling sensation he expected. He didn't feel anything. His lips were drooping on one side, and he didn't feel the spit which hung from his lip. Nevertheless, he splashed water on his face which disappointed him – he didn't feel the jolt he had hoped for.