Page 264 of Sinister

“Medicine . . . do you have any medicine?” I ask. “Something I can use for your wounds?”

“The back cabinet,” he mutters, barely audible.

I hurry over and open the cabinet he mentioned, finding iodine, bandages, and a few jars—one of which I assume is a salve tincture. I bring them over and, seeing that the deeper wounds are still bleeding, apply pressure with the cloth.

“I think I might need to suture this for you.”

He makes a low sound in his throat.

“Do you want me to do that?”

“Do it,” he finally says. “There’s thread and needles in the art room.”

Once more, I dash around the house, looking for anything useful. I find a spool of thread—even though I don’t know the first thing about sewing flesh—and a few needles. I choose the thickest, realizing that human skin will be much harder to pierce than fabric. Then I quickly sanitize them.

Back at his side, I dab iodine onto the wounds, cleaning the fresh blood before pinching the two sides of flesh together and trying to thread the needle through. He hisses in pain.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Alcohol,” he grumbles. “There’s some on the table.”

I turn and spot a decanter with two glasses. Grabbing it, I pour a copious amount of alcohol over his wounds, vaguely recalling its disinfectant properties. Then I lift the decanter to his lips and make him drink.

He gulps greedily, coughing as it burns down his throat. When he’s finished, he slumps back on the couch.

I get to work again, cleaning the blood.

It just keeps coming.

I pull the edges of the flesh together and make my first attempt at a stitch.

As expected, it’s incredibly hard to pierce the skin. I assume surgical needles are not only sharper and thicker but also easier to handle. Still, I can’t give up.

No matter how hard it is, I have to do this, otherwise he’ll keep bleeding.

Biting my lip in concentration, I push the needle through one side of the wound, then the other, and repeat. Thankfully, though deep, the cut isn’t long; it only requires six or seven stitches.

I tie off the thread and pour a bit more alcohol over the wound before rubbing on some of the salve from the tincture jar.

I repeat the process on the other four deeper wounds. Some are larger, some smaller, but eventually I manage to stitch all of them, apply the salve, and wrap a bandage tightly around his torso.

There are still some scrapes and scratches on his face, but I’m out of bandages at this point.

I dab alcohol onto them, followed by more salve, hoping it will be enough for now.

His breathing evens out. He’s asleep.

I let out a long sigh of relief. At least he’s no longer in pain.

Good Lord, what happened tonight?

The weight of everything finally hits me. Everything I saw. Everything I did.

It’s too much. I take a long swig of the alcohol.

Ew, I think with a grimace. This is terrible. But if it helped Sin manage his pain, maybe it’ll help me, too. Maybe it will numb the thoughts, the guilt, the anger . . . because I can’t stop thinking—if I hadn’t gone there, would he still have poisoned her? Or was it always meant to happen?

Was she going to die whether I was there or not?