The first bullet shattered the side mirror. The second punched through the driver’s door. Then came a symphony of cracks—nine millimeters spitting fire. Curtis didn’t hear the shots so much as feel them: a hammer hitting a brick wall, over and over, inside his body. A round tore through his left hand, another lodged in his forearm. A third ripped into his chest, collapsing a lung. But it was the fourth—the one that struck his left cheek, just below his eye, and exited through the back of his mouth—that sent the world into slow-motion chaos.
At the ER, nurses later said he walked in on his own, spitting blood onto the linoleum, refusing to lie down. “I’m not dying today,” he slurred through a shattered jaw. The doctors counted nine entry and exit wounds. They told his family he had a six percent chance of survival. A bullet had missed his carotid artery by a millimeter. Another had passed through his tongue without severing it. He was a medical oddity—a man turned into Swiss cheese who refused to leak out his last breath. 50 cent gunshot wound
He didn’t hide the scars. He rapped about the bullets as if they were old friends. Because they were. They had taught him the only lesson that mattered: when you’ve already died and come back, there’s nothing left to fear. The first bullet shattered the side mirror