“Just a little longer,” I say quietly to the man in my bed as my gaze travels down to the gaping hole in his leg.
I’m a bit obsessive about, well… a lot of things. Sterility is one of them, so I have plenty of first aid supplies to get him this far. What I don’t have is knowledge or training about where to go from here. I bandaged him as best I could and applied pressure above the wound to staunch the blood flow while trying not to make it too tight and risk killing his entire limb.
I don’t think he’d forgive me if I were the reason he became an amputee. That thought also makes the pit in my stomach sour.
My fingers trail above him, just barely not touching his hand. I can feel his warmth. His life. He has to live.
Gently, I move a lock of hair from his forehead, careful not to touch his skin. But then I pull my hand back. I don’t have permission to touch him. Not even that.
Taking a step back so I’m less tempted (ha!), I stare at him. My ears trained specifically to the monitor, listening to its rhythmic beeps.
I hear the front door open on the other side of the apartment and turn expectantly. Mark steps into the bedroom a minute later. He gives me a smile, and then his attention is on the patient.
We don’t talk. Mark pulls my desk chair over and unwraps my patching. His only comment is, “Nice job, Oxley.” While his compliment might resonate deeper at any other time, I barely hear it now. The way my heart flutters in my chest suggests maybe I also need to have a heart monitor. It feels like it’s ready to punch its way right out of my chest!
The minutes drag. On and on and on. I’m getting fidgety as I wait for Mark to get through his task. While I don’t get queasy easily, that’s a big wound, so I keep Mark’s body blocking my view and focus my gaze on the man’s face.
He’s young. Twenties, I think. If he’s in his thirties, he’s aging very,verywell. His hair is dusty blond. There’s a unique shade to it in the sun, like he’s got charcoal mixed into the light strands. I haven’t gotten a good look at his eyes, though.
I had to cut off his pants, which felt invasive and awkward, but Mark insisted I needed to see the damage clearly. Dirt and bacteria would cling to his jeans and might infect him, so I didn’t have a choice. As much as I wanted to wait until Mark got here, fear of him dying from infection spurred me on.
For the record, I covered him quickly. Boundaries are a big deal for me. As is invading someone’s personal space. I’ve been told I’m weird my entire life, which is fine with me. Everyone should learn about boundaries and consent. There are a lot of things lacking in the world, but those two are a couple of the biggest areas, in my opinion.
It’s entirely too long before Mark stands. “We need to change the bedding,” he says, and I nod.
Tearing my eyes from the man’s face, I step into the bathroom and pull clean linens from the closet. I stare at the comforter that goes with these. My fingers itch with the compulsion to change it, too.
Knowing that it’ll never stop itching in my head if I don’t, I pull the comforter out as well. Mark already has the man on my couch and is in the process of stripping my bed. He’s also separated the towels and mat I’d laid out before bringing the injured stranger into my space.
In silence, Mark helps me make the bed. New sheets. New comforter. New pillowcases, though the urge to change out the pillows completely is there, too. No, the comforter was most important. The pillows can wait.
But as I’m stuffing a pillow into the case, I decide that no, it cannot, in fact, wait. Sighing, I head back to the linen closet and pull down the four pillows that go with this bedding set.
Mark doesn’t question me. He pulls the pillowcase off the pillow he’d been dressing and accepts the new pillows instead.
“You have more sterile pads?” Mark asks.
I nod and leave him to finish the pillows. Two entire shelves of my linen closet are dedicated to medical supplies. Don’t ask me why. It’s an obsessive compulsion. I bring another pad in, along with a towel. The towels are softer than these scratchy pads.
Mark arranges both, and I watch intently as he picks up the man and settles him back into the bed. He covers the man up entirely, and I feel much better about that.
“He’ll be fine,” Mark tells me. “The nature of the wound means it’ll take longer to heal, but he’s fortunate that it didn’t hit anything important. Not even bone. While it’s a big, ugly wound, it’s basically a flesh wound. He should count his lucky stars and maybe play the lottery.”
Mark grins when I don’t find his humor funny. I don’t find most ‘funny’ things amusing. Call it a quirk, I guess.
He goes on to tell me about the pain medication and how to administer a dose through the saline drip. He leaves a couple more for me to change out when needed. I listen raptly as he gives me care instructions.
Once he’s packed up, Mark looks at me. “You sure you don’t want me to take him to the hospital, Oxley?”
“No,” I say quickly, and while I’d love to give him a reason… there just isn’t one. So I don’t elaborate.
Mark nods. “All right. Call if you have any concerns. I’ll want a video of the wound tomorrow. We can re-evaluate his condition then.”
“Thank you,” I say and follow him to the door, locking it behind him.
I gather all the soiled laundry and dump it in the laundry room, starting the sheets before leaving.
He’s still asleep when I return to the room, so I sit back at the desk and continue going over the police scanner reports and maps. It would be more efficient to do this digitally, but I don’t want the light to disturb him. So I’m left pretending I’m in the nineties.
