In 2017, Paul Rousseau was shot in the head by his roommate at University of St. Thomas. The two were in their residence hall at the time of the accident. This week, Rousseau releases a memoir recounting his version of the events and their aftermath. The following is an excerpt from his “Friendly Fire.” (The names of those involved have been changed):
I wake up alone in my room. From the other room I hear Keith and his girlfriend, Rachel. I try to listen through the closed door and deliriously connect the dots. From what I can gather, Mark has summoned Keith and is briefly explaining what happened: I shot Paul — no, I’m not kidding. Come, now. Rachel is arguing with Mark in the kitchen, ordering him to call the cops immediately.
There is something huge behind my ear, a bulge the size of a jawbreaker. It hurts to the touch, and I fear the worst: It’s the bullet, that it ripped through my brain but slowed at the last moment, unable to break through the last bit of skull and skin. I feel around to confirm. There is no exit wound. I can’t quit fussing with it.
I try to lean up slowly and eventually get up to walk. Everything is less wobbly but more painful now. First the doorframe — a checkpoint, something to lean on; and then the hallway, another checkpoint; and finally the kitchen, where the three of them are still arguing. I rest on a chair. It’s from the same set as the one that broke my fall after the shot. Mark, Keith, and Rachel are around our island, eyes like flashlights. No one can believe I’m walking. I’m sure there’s blood all over my face.
“I messed up. My life is over. I’m going to be scrubbing toilets for the rest of my life,” Mark repeats again and again to himself, like a prayer.
We are all pale, though perhaps me most of all. Keith and Rachel, assuredly frozen in shock themselves, want Mark to be the one to call for help, to own what he’s done. He insists he will, but does not. More time passes. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Tense silence. Rachel gives Mark an ultimatum: Call now, or I will.
Mark says, “Just hold on. Give me just a little bit.”
Rachel starts crying, shouting in hysterics. “You shot Paul,” she says. “You shot him. You shot him. Mark, you shot him. Call the [expletive] ambulance!”
