Page 16 of Any Means Necessary

Either unaware of my reservations, or completely ignoring them, Callum presses his hand to the small of my back and propels me through the doorway. Once we’re in the open and there’s enough space, he steps beside me and grabs my wrist—his strong fingers leading me firmly. Then we’re walking.

Moving down the long, dark hallway trimmed in blood-red LED lights, we pause at the very last door.

“Breathe,” Callum murmurs beside me.

I suck in a breath I’m all too aware I was holding. He reaches around me to turn the knob. I haven’t exactly been trying to picture what’s behind the ominous door, but it definitely wasn’t a storage room. Roscoe stands along the far wall, his aggressive stance stiff. It’s not the shelves of liquor and extra rags that has shock settling over me.

A chair sits in the center of the shadowy room, a man secured by one of his wrists to the chair’s arm with red tape, his ankles secured to the legs. Spatters of blood spread across the plastic covering the floor beneath him, filling the air with the heavy copper scent of violence. His left hand dangles awkwardly, his pinky missing after the first knuckle. It’s been cut off, I can spot the rest of the finger discarded on the ground next to his foot in a pool of blood.

“What is this?” My question comes out barely more than a whisper. Callum’s hand on my back pushes me into the room, the door closing behind us.

“Do your thing, Doc. Get to work and fix him up,” Callum says.

The injured man’s head lolls as his eyes try to look up at me. He looks so defeated, so broken.

“You’re a doctor?” he asks, barely able to get the words out.

“I’m a nurse,” I correct again, standing and assessing the situation. Callum walks around me, moving to watch from the other side of the room facing the door. His giant stature fills the corner of the room, making the space feel so much smaller.

Judging by the amount of blood, enough time has passed between now and the injury to allow some clotting. If the finger is still bleeding too much, I’ll have to do a wet-to-dry. But hopefully, I can just stitch the wound closed and bandage it. That all depends on the instrument used and the state of the remaining finger. My eyes lock with Callum's as my assessment fully processes. Then I’m moving.

“How long ago did this happen?” I ask no one in particular. I don’t actually know who’s responsible, so the answer could come from either of them.

“Forty-seven minutes,” Roscoe supplies gruffly.

When I lower, I do my best to avoid the blood splatters. I’ll kneel in the gore if I have to, but not if I can avoid it.

“What did you use?” I ask, placing my kit on the floor. When I move to get a closer look at the wound, the bloodied man jerks nervously. I can see Roscoe enter my peripheral vision, his muscles tensed and ready as if he perceives the wounded man’s movement as a threat against me. But I don’t flinch. “How was it cut off?”

“Don’t ask that,” Callum says, warning me off. “You don’t want to know the answers to any of your questions.”

He thinks I’m just curious—that I’m entertained by this display of brutality. Throwing him a look of agitation, I lift the mangled hand to inspect it.

“What you used to remove the finger might affect how I have to treat it,” I say, pulling out the syringe of local anesthetic. No matter what they used, whether it was a surgical scalpel or a rusty kitchen knife, I have to touch it to patch him up.

And that’s going to hurt like hell.

“I used these,” Roscoe supplies a pair of hand-held pruning shears. Taking the tool from his hand, my eyes catch with his momentarily. I’m struck with the sinking realization that the man of few words just used these landscaping scissors to remove someone’s finger. But as quickly as the thought hits me, it’s gone and I’m moving on.

“These don’t look new,” I comment, taking in the scratches and knicks on the sharp blades. Glancing at Roscoe, I can see the hesitance before he answers.

“Not new, but they were clean,” he says.

There’s no rust, which is a good sign, but they’re not sterile. I’ll need to make sure the laceration is cleaned thoroughly so there’s no infection.

They cut the pinky off at a slight angle, so there’s enough skin to fold over and close the wound. Just barely, and there will be lots of scarred tissue, but it will work.

“He’s going to need stitches. But it’s going to be tricky,” I announce, sifting through the kit for the supplies to properly clean the wound.

“Can you do that, Doc?” The look of annoyance I throw at Callum just feeds the man’s ego.

“I’m a nurse,” I say, for what feels like the millionth time. “So I shouldn’t be able to, not for something like this. But luckily for you, my best friend is a trauma surgeon and I’ve perfected my sutures on bananas over a couple glasses of wine.”

Organizing the supplies I’ll need and laying them out on the lid of the kit, I’m ready to get to work. Pulling the cap off the sterile needle, I flick the air bubbles out and give it a tiny squirt. Eyeing me warily, the man pulls at his restraints.

“No, what is that? Get that away from me,” he rasps, yanking at his hand that’s now bleeding profusely. Roscoe takes a threatening step forward, but I raise my hand to stop him. Instead, I look the imprisoned man straight in the eye.

“I know you think you don’t want me to touch you with this needle but, trust me, you want what’s in this syringe,” I inform him calmly. Beaten captive tied to a chair or not, he’s still just another patient who needs to be treated properly. “If you refuse, I’ll have to clean you up without numbing it. It’s your choice.” I stare at him expectantly. It only takes three seconds for him to realize my syringe is his friend, and he nods his consent.

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