Page 36 of Nocturne
Snow falls heavy and slow, like the whole damn sky decided to bury us alive. Every step I take sinks, and the weight of his body tears through my shoulders — Damon’s barely conscious, but still clutching my jacket like he’s not ready to stop fighting. Blood drips from the gash in his stomach, hot drops staining the white snow red. Everything looks paler, colder. The forest closes in around us, trees coated in ice like silent witnesses to how fucked we really are.
My breath comes out in thick clouds, mixed with the rage and exhaustion pounding in my chest. Theexplosion still burns behind my eyes — the car blown to twisted metal, our one shot going up in smoke.
I don’t know where I’m going. I just know if I stop, he dies. If I stop, everything we’ve done means nothing. The wind slices my face like a blade, snow seeping through my sleeves, clinging to my sweaty neck. Every step feels heavier than the last.
I hate this fucking silence — that rotten calm that creeps in right after a shootout, before the next disaster hits. Damon mumbles something I can’t make out, voice rough, thick with pain, and for a second I have to shut my eyes to keep from punching the nearest tree.
We’re lost. No car, no way out, no time. Just this goddamn trail of blood marking every step we take.
“Don’t fucking die on me! Don’t you dare fucking die!”I shout at Damon, but he barely seems to hear me.
“I’m gonna kill you... mostly for touching me.” He growls, pressing down on the stab wound, eyes burning with pain and rage.
Snow has already swallowed everything under a thick white sheet, erasing any trace of what we’ve been through — but it doesn’t erase the taste of blood in the air.
It’s been nearly forty minutes of either dragging or carrying Damon, stumbling through this white-out maze,no sign of a road, no sign of anything.
The silence is brutal.
Only our heavy breaths and the crunch of frozen branches under my boots break through the cold.
When I finally see the wooden cabin between the trees, for a second I think I’m hallucinating.
Sloped roof buried in snow, porch wrapped in thick logs, like something frozen in time.
It looks empty. It looks abandoned.
But I’ve got no other choice.
I lean Damon against a pine tree, the trunk wide enough to hide his body from any wandering eyes.
His eyes crack open just enough to shoot me that glare — all pain and wounded pride.
I ignore it.
I climb the steps slowly, each board creaking under my weight, like the wood itself is warning me I don’t belong here. I peek through the broken window.
Nothing.
No sound.
Just the moaning wind.
I draw a breath and shove the door open. The scent of mold and old wood slaps me in the face — but at least it’s shelter.
Back outside, I crouch beside Damon and slip anarm beneath his legs, lifting his body — too limp, too cold. He groans something under his breath, but I can’t make out the words.
Inside, I lower him onto the only bed. The mattress gives under his weight. My chest tightens. Heart racing like it’s about to rip through my ribs.
He doesn’t look like he’ll last long.
I don’t know if he’s gonna make it.
I turn and start tearing through the place — drawers, cabinets, boxes — anything I can find to stop the bleeding or stitch the wound before it’s too late.
I throw open every door and drawer in the cabin’s tiny kitchen, desperate for anything that might stop the bleeding from Damon’s stab wound.
Everything I find hits the wooden floor — cutlery, knives, jars — the noise echoing loud, shattering the heavy silence. I open the upper cabinet and spot a tube of super glue. Shit, that’s it. But I still need something to clean the wound.
