Page 53 of Wicked Little Game
“Your mother has a migraine. She needs her quiet,” my father had always told me when things got weird again. Sent me off with one of his men. For hours, at first. Then for days, until days turned into weeks.
Until the day my mom was suddenly gone.
“Fine, we’ll try it. But if you squirm too much, I’m going to drag you to the hospital, and I don’t give a shit if you want to go there or not.”
Sam rushes upstairs to his room to search for his first aid kit. I should wonder why he has one in his luggage, but hey, someone who brings a gun to a job should probably also bring a first aid kit.
When he comes back, the box in his hand doesn’t look like the kits they put in cars, but I don’t have the energy to question his almost doctor-like setup right now.
The edge of the stairs presses into my back and maybe that’s a good thing. It is, I realize as he sprays disinfectant on the wounds.
“It hurts,” I say, and he looks at me with tired eyes.
“Told you it's going to hurt,” he says as he pulls out the shard. Every time I think we reached the maximum level of pain this whole ordeal causes, I’m proven wrong. Blood seeps out of the wound, and I have to look the other way.
I never had a problem with seeing blood. I just don’t like it when it’s mine.
“Can you move your fingers?” Sam’s voice seems so distant, as if I’m hearing him through a wall of cotton.
“Mhm,” I mumble while the edges of my vision slowly get dark. Only to be pulled back to reality by a harsh burn. Apparently, disinfectant stings even more if it’s applied to a wound without a shard sticking in it.
“I’m gonna use absorbable sutures,” he explains before he warns me he’s starting to stitch me up.
“How do you—” I frown, praying to God that it won’t need many stitches. “How do you know all this shit?”
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he keeps on taking care of my wound, explaining what he’s doing from time to time. Like doctors talk to kids, and I’m embarrassed to admit that it’s working on me too.
It feels like he’s stitching a straight line through my entire palm and as I look towards my hand, my vision gets blurry. I think Sam senses it, either that or he notices my body going slightly lax again.
“Hey, stay with me,” he says, patting my cheek as he takes a break from stitching me up. “You’re a real drama queen, you know that?”
I groan, flinching as he continues to work on my hand.
“That’s not even a bad wound. You know what’s worse? Getting shot in the ass.”
I laugh tiredly, only to be scolded for moving.
“Who shot you in the ass?”
“Not me. One of my—friends.”
“You have interesting friends.”
“Mhm.”
“So, why was your friend shot in the ass?”
“Bar fight.”
“Did you pull a bullet out of his ass?”
“Yep.”
“Cool. Did he keep it?”
“What kind of question is that?” Samuel asks as he wraps a bandage around my hand. That was quick. “And yes, he kept it.”
As he gets up to wash his hands, he almost trips over one slipper I lost. He curses under his breath, kicking the slipper through the living room.
