Mere Oblivion

A mottled blood bruise blossomed beneath his collarbone around the small, puckered crater where the bullet had torn through. Yellow at the furthest reaches, then greening, before deepening to plum nearest the wound.
And another stitch had torn loose. Even though blood no longer flowed, the slightest provocation, he knew, would start a trickle.
Chance McCabe leaned on the sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The bandage peeled back from his shoulder told a grim story. The mound of gauze bore concentric rings of crusted fluids, an innermost circle of deep crimson still tacky, surrounded by rusty brown coronas. Yellow-tinged serum stiffened portions of the gauze, creating a brittle crust.
It was getting worse.
In Denver three days ago, he’d convinced himself it was healing nicely. The worst had passed. He’d taken all of Calhoun’s antibiotics and they seemed to have done the trick. Sure, it felt a bit warm at times, but it was a fucking gunshot wound. That was to be expected, right? Another week and he’d snip the remaining stitches.
Aside from a nasty scar, he’d be good as new.
But as he’d sat in First Class on the United flight from Denver to LA, sipping scotch and reading a trashy paperback he’d picked up in a gift shop before he boarded, he’d felt more than a warmth.
There was a burn in the wound.