Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
He hands me a needle already prepared with surgical suture. “Do you sew?”
My fingers tremble as I take it from him. “My mother tried to teach me, but it never grew on me.”
“Damn,” he says, laughing softly. “I guess it’s going to leave a scar.”
“Probably.” I take a deep breath and jab the needle through his skin. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. At least I’ll have a souvenir from you.”
His attempt at humor helps. My heartbeat settles slightly as I stitch him up, wincing for his sake every time I pull the needle through his skin.
Five stitches and I’m done. I step back to inspect my work. The bleeding has stopped. I clean the wound again and apply an antibiotic ointment before sticking a gauze over it.
I’m wrung out from the traumatic experience but high on adrenaline. I’m jittery, feeling like I’ve downed a liter of caffeine on an empty stomach.
He uncaps a bottle, shakes out a pill, and swallows it dry.
“Painkiller?” I ask, looking around for a glass to give him some water.
“Antibiotic.” He pushes to his feet and faces me. Other than looking a little pale, he shows no signs of just having gone through rookie surgery. “I try not to take pills unless it’s absolutely necessary. Chemicals aren’t good for the body.”
Right. The kind of pain he must be in doesn’t count as an absolute necessity.
“Wash your hands,” he says, nodding at the flask on the sink.
I squirt soap into my palm while he unscrews the flask and pours water over my hands. There’s no towel, so I dry them on my jeans.
He catches me off guard when he cups my cheek and asks, “How are you doing?” His gaze is piercing, searching mine, reminding me he won’t settle for lies.
“I’m fine.”
I inhale again, dragging in the air like a nicotine addict drags on a cigarette, but it’s to no avail. There’s not enough oxygen for all my cells. It’s not my lungs that fail me. It’s the distributor. It’s my heart.
“Hey.” He takes my face between his hands, the gun now resting against my temple. “Easy. Breathe. Deep breaths, baby doll.”
It fills me, the panic of suffocation. “Can’t.”
His expression shifts. He’s no longer gentle or accommodating. He’s no longer friendly. He’s collected and calm. He’s deadly. Serious. I catch a glimpse of the bad man who does bad things as the mask drops and he takes control.
“Lungs?” he asks in a terse voice, tilting my head back to examine my eyes.
I shake my head. “Heart.” I point at my bag hanging over the chairback. “Pills.”
He steers me to the clean chair and lowers me gently. “You’re going to be fine.”
He says it with so much certainty it’s difficult not to believe him. He leaves the gun to unzip my bag and go through the content. He acts fast, but he doesn’t fumble. He works confidently, efficiently.
He takes out the brown bottle and holds it up to the light. After reading the label, he uncaps it and takes out two pills. “Open.”
When I open my mouth, he places the pills on my tongue. I swallow. He guards me for a moment, maybe making sure I don’t fall down and die on his floor, before he takes a bottle of water from a cooler box next to the table. He uncaps the bottle and holds it to my lips.
“Better?” he asks when I’ve taken a few sips.
The pills will take time to have an effect, but I already feel calmer. Psychologically, I know I’ll survive my heart. Him, I’m not so sure. Maybe he lied. Maybe he is a killer after all. Maybe he’s keeping me alive for sinister purposes. “Yeah, thanks.”
When he scoops me up, lifting me into his arms, I don’t have the energy to protest. I barely have enough fuel left for my body to function. I suddenly feel tired, horribly so, which must be the low after the high from the adrenaline.
He carries me down a dark hallway to the end. Strangely, I feel better in his arms. I should be afraid, but I can’t even manage that much. I’m simply too exhausted. It’s hard enough to just exist. It’s warm in the cocoon of his arms and comfortable against his chest. I haven’t realized how cold I was until the heat of his body wrapped around me. He smells of disinfectant now, of hospitals and accidents, and in a distant part of my mind that is already disconnected from reality, I mourn the smell of leather and tobacco.
He kicks open a door and balances me in one arm on his uninjured side as he turns on a lamp. Two single beds are pushed against the far wall under the shuttered window. He lowers me onto one. The room smells dusty, but the blanket smells of laundry detergent.