I hurry there, blood dripping down my leg, mostly caught by the jacket, thank goodness, so it’s not all over the marbled floor.
I almost slip as I round the corner into the kitchen.
Maria yelps in fright.
I catch myself before I react and lash out at her. Dammit, the last thing I need is a delicate female passing out when she sees the amount of blood I’m losing.
“Why is the light off?” I growl in a whisper.
“I was getting water, I don’t need a light,” she huffs.
Sighing heavily, I flick it on because I do actually need it.
“Oh my word, what happened?” she blurts out, horrified.
“Nothing, go to bed,” I snap.
Maria scoffs and throws me a cocky little side-eye. Her pink cotton pajama shorts are patterned with little white bunnies. The cami matches. It's too fucking cute for words.
“Don’t tell me what to do. Besides, it looks like you might need some real help before you pass out and crack your skull on the edge of the kitchen counter,” she says boldly.
Her attitude and confidence take me completely by surprise.
She isn’t wrong. My head is definitely spinning.
“Yeah, well, we can’t always get what we want,” I mutter, holding on to the counter as I drag myself to the pantry.
“Just sit down, for crying out loud,” she huffs, pushing me onto one of the kitchen bar chairs.
Why isn’t she sobbing and completely freaked out by the blood? Why hasn’t she asked me how I got hurt? Why does she look as calm as a kitten?
I sit down, because if I don’t, I’m going to fall.
Maria is muttering when she walks away from me into the pantry.
She comes out carrying a first aid kit.
“Um…I need to cut your pants off, I think,” she says, pulling her mouth tight.
“Do whatever you want, little bird. Just don’t make it worse,” I say, curious about what exactly she plans on doing.
I watch her open the first aid kit on the kitchen counter and pull out a number of items. She brings the scissors over to me and slips the blade beneath the tear in my pants, cutting upward, then downward. I am now only wearing half a pair of pants.
Maria works methodically.
She cleans the wound, grabbing my hand and pressing it against my own leg when she leaves to get something else. “Push here. Apply pressure. Don’t let go, okay,” she says.
“Okay…how do you know how to deal with this? Why aren’t you crying?” I blurt out.
She snorts, a cute little sound that makes her blush.
“I did a few courses in first aid. And it’s not like my brother never came home covered in blood before,” she explains.
“So, you’ve done stuff like this. Obviously. I mean, you look like you know more than most of the people who have helped me in the past,” I laugh dryly.
“You need stitches,” she sighs.
“Fuck, I am not going to a hospital now. They ask so many questions. Is there duct tape in that bag?”
