I slump to the floor, back leaning against the door. The duffle bag is on my left, and my wound is throbbing. My forehead is sweaty, and fuck, I don’t know enough about medicine to be able to stitch myself up properly. The only knowledge I have is from the time I was in prison, and Arlo was tending to all of my wounds.
I touch my back, and somehow, I’m relieved that there’s an exit hole. If there wasn’t one, stitching myself up while the bullet is still inside of my body would probably be a terrible idea.
With a deep intake of breath, I take the hoodie off, wincing in pain. The shirt underneath is soaked, too, I waste no time in removing it, and toss it to the side. My hands are covered in blood, transferring onto everything I touch. I wipe my hands using the baby wipes Kaya sent, trying to get as much as possible off.
The first aid kit is staring back at me, the box is heavier than it looks. I take it out, and with trembling legs, manage to carry it to the bar. I blow away the dust that has accumulated over the time this place has been closed, and set it on top of the bar.
“Well, thank you, Kaya,” I chuckle, wiping the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand.
Inside of the box, on top of every instrument and medical things I’ll need, is a note. It’s an instruction on how to use every single thing on the inside, in which order, and how to properly stitch myself up. I’m not sure if she had one of these ready, or if she managed to write it all so quickly, but nonetheless, I’m grateful.
I start off by wiping all the excess blood, pressing on the wound until it stops bleeding. Then, I put on a pair of blue latex gloves, snapping them against my skin. My breathing is shakyas I reach for the sterile gauze, and the tweezers, trying to clean the outside of the wound with as much precision as possible, without directly touching the wound. That seems like it would hurt.
Once those are all dirty, I throw them to the floor, uncaring of the mess I’m creating. There is a small package of medical sutures, and although most first aid kits don’t have them, these are what I specifically asked Kaya to add in. It’s like I predicted something like this would happen.
Once the exit hole of the bullet is thoroughly clean, I open the little box, staring at the medical sutures. To be frank, this box might as well contain aliens, because that’s the way I’m staring at the contents of it.
“Fuck,” I breathe out, fumbling with the thread. “It’s okay. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be done, Blair. You’ve got this.”
The little pep talk does absolutely nothing to boost my confidence. Fortunately, there’s a note at the bottom of the box too, and relief floods over me. I read over Kaya’s handwritten note at least a dozen times, before getting to work.
To say that this hurts like a bitch would be a drastic understatement. It’s been a while since I last had stitches, and I truly did forget what it feels like to have thread pulled through your skin. It’s sturdy, and I’m trying to be as precise as possible.
Stitching the front isn’t a problem, though. It takes me ten minutes to get it all done, and cover it with another sterile gauze, just in case. The back however, is giving me a headache, even before I even begin working on it. With my left hand, I slowly touch the exit wound, trying to find the beginning and end, whilebringing the needle and the thread close to it. My eyes snap shut, jaw clenched so hard that I think I manage to chip a tooth.
It doesn’t have to be perfect, it just has to hold until I can get proper, medical care.
“Jesus Christ,” I hiss, and pause for a moment. The needle goes in way too deep, and black dots start forming in my vision. I brace myself, managing to hold myself up straight by gripping the wooden bar, taking in deep breaths. “Fuck.”
I should’ve asked Kaya to do this. She seems to have more experience, and even if she doesn’t, she could see the back well, and do it better than I ever would. It takes me five minutes to regain the balls to try again, and although it goes smoother this time, it’s fucking painful.
“God,” I breathe out, taking the gloves off and throwing them down. I rummage through the dufflebag, finding a new shirt and another hoodie. Kaya even sent me a spare pair of pants, and while Paul is sleeping, I decide to change those, too. Mine are too wet from the rain, and getting sick right now isn’t on the agenda.
The hoodie, the pants, and even the shirt match with those I had on previously. They’re even from the same brand, and a smile forms on my face. I didn’t bring these with me, I know for a fact that it was Arlo who delivered them.
“Soon, Baby,” I mutter to myself, walking around the bar. “I’ll be home soon.”
Alcohol has always been a big no-no for me. There are too many reasons, mainly because I grew up with alcoholics, and it’s likely half the reason for everything that happened. However, when I spot the bottle of unopened whiskey staring back at me, I decide to allow myself the temptations.
I open the bottle, bringing it to my lips and taking a big swing. The liquor slides down my throat with ease, but the aftertaste makes my stomach churn. With the back of my palm, I wipe the little droplets that are sliding down my chin, gagging at the taste. Oh, this is absolutely terrible. How can people drink this?
The sound of Paul groaning makes me turn around. My eyes skim over the chains, and he’s secured against the chair. There’s not a single possibility he could ever run away. He’s slowly coming to, and I can’t help the smirk that tugs on the corner of my lips.
My phone rings, and I pick the call up without looking at who is calling me.
“Hello?”
“Alright, we have good news. Three of them, in fact.”
Kaya’s voice rings in my ears, and I sigh in relief.
“Finally, some good news. Shoot.”
“Noelle is awake.”
I halt, my heart skipping a beat. “She’s awake? Is she okay?”
“Mhmm, recovering nicely. The other thing is, Flint is dead.”
