“Fuck it,” I say while yanking open the cabinet beneath my sink and pulling out a large trash bag. I wave it to fill it with air then dump the contents of the box and seal the bag closed to be thrown out with the garbage. I sit it near the door along with the other trash from my bin.
The loud buzzing from my apartment intercom blares, stopping me from returning to my place on the sofa. I frown, confused at who it might be. Eric’s already canceled our plans, and aside from him, I never have visitors. Whoever it is pushes the button again, this time holding it for several seconds. Annoyed, I rush over and press the intercom.
“Hello,” I bark. I release the button, and a faint ruffle pours back at me. I call out again, this time being met with a few heavy breaths.
“Mr. Berkeley, did you forget your key again?” I ask and buzz him in.
In the short year I’ve lived in this building I’ve made one friend—the old man on the first floor. He’s sweet and gentle but never remembers his key when he goes out for a stroll or a quick trip to the convenience store on the corner. I smile and take my seat, making a note to check on him in the morning on my way out.
I surf the TV guide for something to watch. I settle on a movie and toss my legs up on the couch. There’s a nip in the air, and I shiver while wrapping myself with the plush throw cover I have draped over the top of my sofa. Just as I’m nestled under the fabric, there’s a knock at my door. Eric is at work, and Mr. Berkeley never comes upstairs, so I decide to ignore it. Whoever it is has the wrong apartment and will soon realize that. I lift the cover to my neck and lay my head back on the arm of the sofa.
They bang again, harder this time, refusing to give up. I guess I’m not moving fast enough, because this prick continues their assault on my door, rattling its frame.
Boom… Boom… Boom…
I yank the cover off and push myself up, annoyed at their persistence. It’s my day off, and all I’d like to do is watch a movie in peace. After the emotional beating I took today, whoever this is, is about to get a piece of my mind.
I jerk the door open, and my heart immediately slams into my chest. The remote I’m holding falls from my grip, making a swooshing sound when it lands on the garbage bag full of memories. My body buckles, and my eyes pop out of their sockets. I’m stuck, frozen in disbelief and unable to form words or catch my breath. This can’t be happening. I must be dreaming. That’s it! This is all some horrible fucking nightmare, one that I hope to never experience again.
“Hey, Lotus,” Dylan says while perched against the threshold and clutching his left shoulder. Blood seeps through his fingers and down the sleeve of his tattered long-sleeved shirt. “Gonna let me in?” he adds as the color drains from his skin.
“I’m kinda bleeding to death here, babe.” He smirks and nods to his wounded shoulder.
Just like that, my world turns to shit, and I’m reminded of the damage my heart still hasn’t healed from. I blink, certain my mind is just playing tricks on me. But, nope…staring back at me are eyes that once turned me into a love-induced puddle. My knees go weak, and I grip the knob for balance.
“What…?” I begin to ask, but the words die on my tongue, and sweat slicks my skin.
All rational leaves me, and I slam the door, hoping that will somehow erase the last several seconds. But I know it won’t. I know no matter how badly I’d like for this to be some horrible dream, it’s not. On the other side of this door is Dylan, a blood-soaked bane of my existence. Suddenly, my emotions settle and are replaced with suppressed anger that comes bubbling out, nearly erupting like a volcano. Exacerbation takes over, and before I can make sense of it, I snatch open the door and slap him—hard. He stares at me, seemingly unaffected by my actions. Prick, I want to scream, but my instincts kick in, and I lift his biceps to wedge myself under his arm as best I can, wrapping mine around him. He’s plugging the wound with his left thumb, so it’s a bit of a challenge at first, but I manage to secure my grip. I use my feet to kick the door closed and help him over to the sofa. Not caring enough to be gentle, I let him flop down, watching as he winces through the pain.
How did he find me?
I rush over to my linen closet and retrieve my first-aid kit. Gripping the handle, I pause for a moment, shutting my eyes and taking several deep breaths. For two reasons: he’s apparently been shot, and if I’m going to help him, I need a steady hand, and also because this kit was a gift from him for our first anniversary. I shake off my thoughts and run back to his side, instantly going to work on cleaning him up. Across his lap, I place a latex pad and load it with things I’ll need. This may not be the cleanest environment, but the least I can do is make sure my supplies aren’t contaminated. I can’t see the type of damage he has, but with the amount of blood, I only hope the bullet didn't hit any major arteries. I yank on a pair of gloves then rip his sleeve completely open, letting the fabric fall off his body, which is holding on only by the intact stitching on the other side.
After carefully removing his finger from the wound, I disinfect it with antiseptic and wipe the blood with gauze until I’m sure the site is clean enough to get a good look. Shifting him forward, I see the slug went clean through. He’s lucky, just an inch to the left, and he’d be a dead man. The bullet pierced the brachial plexus region of his shoulder, missing his major arteries by a hair. It’s because of that, he’ll most likely survive.
Unless I kill him first.
Dylan makes a fist and fights back a groan as I apply pressure to the injury. I know it shouldn’t, but his pain brings me pleasure. If it wasn’t for the oath I took to help and heal people, I’d punch him right where the bullet struck. The bleeding slows, clotting just enough to make it safe to seal him up. I feel his gaze on me when I bend over to remove extra gauze, surgical tape, scissors, and stitching supplies from my bag.
“Is that the bag I gave you?” he asks brokenly.
I ignore him.
“The one from our first—”
“Shut up,” I bark, blowing out a sharp breath and squeezing my fingers into my palm to stop them from trembling. I’ve given hundreds of patients stitches, even assisted with operations over the years. Not once have I suffered an unsteady hand. I hate that he does this to me, make me weak and jittery.
Sitting the tools in his lap, I aggressively thread the needle, trying my damnedest to avoid his stares and attempts at a conversation. While there are a few choice words I’d like to give him, I won’t even waste my energy. I just want him gone, out of my life. He’s already put me through so much, breaking me until I barely recognized myself when I looked in the mirror. Then he shows up here, seeking my help. I should have left him out there, but I couldn’t bear to let him die on my doorstep.
I start with his back, slowly sewing the hole closed. His body tightens every time the thread slides through his skin. Normally, I’d numb the area before starting with a cream or injection, but that’s not an item I have readily available in my at-home kit. If he would have gone to a hospital like a sane human being, he wouldn’t be squirming like a two-year-old right now.
“Let me—”
I yank the stitch, and he groans.
“Don’t talk.” I tug.