The tampons!Shit, they’remadeto plug bleeding holes. How did I not think of that sooner? Actually, wait…that was debunked. A myth or something? Was packing a wound dangerous? Shit. How am I supposed to know these things?
I grab the diaper and scissors and cut it in half straight through the gusset. I set the front panel aside and then cut the back in half again. I reach for the duct-tape, the same duct-tape I use to cover the holes in my shoes, and use it to secure the wadding to the wound at his back, leaning him precariously across my chest to get access to him and knowing that each time I move him, I’m certain to be doing more damage than good.
Thomas rests only a few inches from the wall, so I bite back my fear and ease him back carefully, pinning the jacket behind his back. As soon as he feels steady, I grab a hardback textbook and wedge it behind him to close the distance between his upper body and the wall. I figure it’s another layer of pressure while I tend to the front wounds.
I do the same thing again with the smaller of the diaper pieces and wrap the tape as tightly as I can around his shoulder and thebook. Two down, one to go.
Ripping the bottom of my t-shirt, I dab at the hole in his lower chest to get a clearer look.
The thought of putting my hands near the wound damn near makes me piss my pants. His shoulder is one thing; flesh, bone, muscles, and cartilage, but the chest is another thing altogether. There are organs, veins, arteries—things that can rupture and kill him in seconds. Things that might already be ruptured. Add the risk of infection into the mix and I’m ready to leave.
But I can’t. Not now. Not after I’ve promised to help.
The scrap of shirt is saturated. I drop it to the step and reached for the largest diaper section. I hold it over the hole and shut my eyes.
I can do this. Ihaveto do this. So why am I hesitating?
“Are you going to…sit there…or press it?”
My eyes fly wide. He is grey, like all the colour has washed out of him. He stares up at me with glassy eyes. “You’re awake? Oh shit. I mean, that’s great.”
“Do it,” he whispers before shutting his eyes again.
Right or wrong, I put pressure on the makeshift bandage, careful not to press too deep but making sure I’m firmly attached to him. With a weak cry, screamed through clenched teeth, his eyes fly open and then flicker.
“Fuck!” He rests his head upon the step with resignation and closes his eyes. He remains still for so long I fear I’ve lost him, and then his mouth twitches and he speaks. “My brother?” he asks. My relief at hearing his voice is incalculable.
“I called him. He’s on his way, an ambulance too. I am not supposed to leave you until he arrives.”
“Stuck with me?” His eyes remain closed tight, but his lip curls. He bleeds on the cold concrete steps and still jokes with me. He’s either brave or delirious.
“Something like that, I guess.” Try as I might, I can’t match his humour, whether he means it sarcastically or not.
“Name?”
“Juliet but everyone calls me Jules.”
“Tom. Now we’re…friends.” He struggles to talk but seems determined to speak. Does he fear blacking out or is he trying to distract himself? Or maybe distract me?
“Should you even be talking? The shows always tell the victim to save their energy.”
“Shows?”
“Yeah, television. You’re out of luck, that’s my only frame of reference.”
He laughs, but it is swallowed up in a coughing fit that has me bolting upright to hold him down. I imagine things moving inside him, I feel the pressure push against the diaper pad in my hand. When his coughing finally dies down, blood drips from his lip.
That can’t be good.
“Listen…you need to tell…my brother…it was a set up…Not safe.” He looks down at his trousers and sucks in a shuddery breath. “Pocket…letter. Give it…only him.” His eyes flicker shut and his breathing becomes thin and thready. I can tell he’s about to pass out again and this time I’m afraid he won’t just be unconscious — he’ll be dead.
Inside, I pray for help to arrive. Outside, I offer him a reassuring smile, even though he no longer sees it.
“Okay?” he continues, keeping his eyes closed. He breathes out the last word before his whole body just lets go. Whatever tension or pain holds him coiled, releases.
I reach with my spare hand and shove two fingers into his trousers, pulling out a folded envelope. The top is unstuck, but I don’t look inside. I couldn’t even if I wanted to with my other hand still anchored to his chest. I hold the envelope scrunched in my fist and close my eyes.
Please, God. Please let him be okay.I’ve never been religious—if God exists, he watches my family go through hell and never helps, but for this man, I pray.
