Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
I nod.
“Good.”
He turns me toward the sink and switches on the tap, setting my hand under it. I wince and try to pull away, but he holds it beneath the flow.
“Keep it here. Understand?”
I nod. He lets go and I watch him take off his cloak and drape it over the back of a stool at the counter. He then begins to rifle through several cabinets. A few moments later, he finds what he needs. I turn to see him taking a large first-aid kit out of a cabinet before bending down for something else.
“There won’t be anything in that thing to sew me up,” I say. “You need to take me to the ER.” And from there, I can take off.
“You’re right about the first part,” he says, straightening and pulling out a second, smaller box that I recognize. That makes me queasy. “No idea why Bishop would have had this, but I’ll call it your lucky day,” he says, coming toward me. He nudges me out of the way and scrubs his hands before switching off the water.
I don’t know who Bishop is but that’s not my concern right now.
“It’s fine, you actually don’t need to sew me up,” I say, eyes on the kit as he goes through it. “It’s better already. It’s fine.”
He looks at my hand, which is not fine, takes out one of the gauze bandages and wraps it around the cut. “I’m not going to lie. It’s going to hurt.”
“And let me guess, you’re going to enjoy it.” I hold onto the gauze as he carries both boxes toward the table and sets them down. I notice the bottle of whiskey and the glass.
“Anesthesia,” he says. “It’s old fashioned but better than nothing. Sit.”
“I’ll do it myself,” I say, sitting down. My hand is throbbing, and I feel lightheaded.
“I don’t think so.” He takes the seat across from mine, pours a generous serving of whiskey into the glass and pushes it toward me.
“Drink that.”
“I’m fine.”
“Suit yourself.” He draws his chair closer and takes my hand, gently peeling the gauze from it.
“I really think it’ll be okay without stitches,” I say, my voice higher as the reality that he will actually sew me up hits.
He puts on the gloves included in the pack, unpacks a disinfecting pad, and gently touches it to the skin around the cut. I wince, sucking in a breath, and, keeping his head bent over his work, he lifts his gaze to mine.
“Drink the whiskey, Blue.”
I shake my head, my breathing shallow, my heart racing. “Just do it. Hurry.” Because I know it’s not going to close on its own and I just need to get through this. I grip the edge of my chair with my free hand and watch him take one of the hooked needles out of its package. “Oh God.”
“Afraid of needles?”
“I’m afraid of you with those needles.”
He smiles and it’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen. It somehow calms me and when he sets my hand on his thigh, I feel a strange sensation deep in my stomach. The movement is intimate. Tender almost.
“Like I said, this will hurt,” he tells me, that same smile morphing into something else, making me shake my head at the direction my thoughts just took.
My eyes are locked on the needle. He’s right about it hurting. It’s going to hurt like fucking hell.
I am sure he doesn’t trust that I won’t pull away instinctively and closes one hand over my wrist. He holds that hand in place as he brings the needle with its suturing thread toward the wound.
“Isn’t there glue or something in there?” I ask panicked, tugging at my hand but unable to pull it out of his grasp.
“Sorry, no,” he says not sounding remotely sorry. He doesn’t bother to look up, and, before I can open my mouth to ask if he’s sure, the needle is in.
I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. Tears sting my eyes, and I can’t help the sound I make when he draws it out of the inside of the wound.
He glances up at me. Grins. “Drink the whiskey.”
I shake my head, trying to stop crying. “Please hurry.”
He gets back to work, and I whimper as he draws the needle out of the other side.
“You have to tie it off first. Then do the next one. You have to tie them off—”
“Shh.” He begins doing just that and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s watched a video or practiced or what, but he is neat and precise, and he’s done with the first stitch sooner than I expect.
“How did you know to do that?” I ask. When I sewed up my face, I was nowhere near as precise nor was I remotely calm. But in my defense, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking and all I had to go on was watching my sister practice on orange peels and a YouTube video on suturing a wound.