This story is a bit of “flash fiction”. In this instance, flash fiction is a story that is no more than 500 words. To read more on what flash fiction is as well as how to write it, check out these two blog posts:
Stories in Your Pocket: How to Write Flash Fiction – by David Gaffney
Flash Fiction FAQs – by William Highsmith

 

Save My Life by J.S.L. (used with permission)
        I’d popped a couple of pain pills before getting in the car, but my leg was still acting up as I sat down at the Account Manager’s desk. As an EMT, John would have chewed me out for being out of bed already.
        “I need to take my ex’s name off my account,” I said, wincing.
        “That shouldn’t be a problem, sir…”
        “Get down on the ground! Now!” a voice rang out near the front door of the bank. A gunshot followed.
        Adrenaline already starting to pump through my body, I pushed myself out of the chair and hid behind a tall file cabinet. I hoped the pills would kick in soon. My left leg was ready to buckle on me at any second. I pulled out my weapon and watched as the Manager was hustled out of his cubicle by a man in a ski mask.                                           I tried to dial 911 but my cell wouldn’t turn on and the Account Manager’s phone was visible from the lobby. Damn.
        Peering around the corner, I counted ski masks. Two behind the counter, one of them stuffing a pillow case, and two in the lobby, guns drawn. The customers were on their stomachs. There were eight.
        No. There was another over by the far wall, phone out. My heart jumped into my throat. It was John. My ex. It had hurt when he’d asked for a divorce three days ago and I wondered when that pain would ever go away. If it would ever go away. He didn’t even know I’d been injured on the job.
        I didn’t have much time. I didn’t want any of the customers hurt, but I had to strike while the robbers were occupied.
        Where was the security guard? Oh. Shit. Near the door, a pool of blood formed by his stomach. A silencer must have been used. Or a knife. Something quiet.
        It was now or never. Ignoring my aching leg, I rushed to the cubicle’s doorway.
        “Police!”  
        Two men turned. Aimed. Fired. Missed. I fired back. Hit one.
        “Hurry up!” someone shouted.
        I ducked another bullet. Aimed. Hit another. My knee gave. The second two emerged from behind the counter. I stumbled. Fell. Tried to take my weight off my left knee. Kicked in the ribs, I went down, cursing.
        I saw John barreling toward the robbers. Distracting them. He struck, head low, knocking them to the ground. A knife flashed in the light. I gathered my energy and pushed off the floor. Got between the knife and John. He shoved me away. Too late. The knife sunk into my thigh.
        I screamed.                                                                                                                                                                                          Police arrived then and swarmed the building as John moved to tie a tourniquet around my thigh.
        “Come on, baby. Don’t quit on me now,” he begged.
        “I won’t… if you don’t,” I said, taking deep breaths to slow my heart.
        He paused. Looked at me. “Never again. I promise.”