When the creak fails to result in any lights coming on, I make my way to the only door in the entire property. It’s not surprising there is only one exit and entry point. The space is so small, it is only half the size of the living room in my family home.
I hiss and moan as we enter the dark space. I sound like an alley cat in the midst of a brawl, but if it saves me from being shot, I’m all for it. The room is very basic. There is a box under a dusty window on my right, a double mattress to my left, and a stack of old pallets being used as a pantry. I think there may be a bathroom hidden behind the back wall, but with half-casted moonlight my only source of light, I’m not willing to advance any closer.
Confident the only living thing inside the cabin is mold and mildew, I head for the double bed shoved in the far left-hand corner of the poorly lit space. Dexter releases a long, simpering moan when I place him on the bed. The reason for his pained groan comes to light when he rolls onto his stomach. The back of his shirt is bright red. The blood seeping from a circular wound is flowing at a frantic rate. I must act quickly or he will bleed out.
Although Dexter’s eyes are snapped shut, I wordlessly advise him I’ll be back in a minute. I know he can hear me. We’ve communicated many times the past six weeks. Brief glances, furled lips, and the occasional slip of a note not only kept me out of harm’s way, but piqued my curiosity. That is why I arrived at Dexter’s room tonight. My inquisitiveness got the better of me. Although I would have preferred our night not be filled with violence, my heart has never raced so fast. The adrenaline rush you get from rule-breaking is addictive—nearly as enticing as the moan that left Bryce’s lips when I struck him with the shovel.
* * *
I gag,scream and nearly give up on my endeavor three times before I gather all the instruments needed to fix Dexter’s wound. I don’t know who owns this cabin, but they should be ashamed of themselves. The moldy sandwich in the sink is swarming with bugs, and the mirror above the vanity is smeared with so much dust, I thought I was a ghost. There is only one time a home should be this messy: when you’re hiding the scent of a decaying corpse.
With half a bottle of whiskey, a sewing kit, and a sturdy length of thread I plucked from the hem of Dexter’s shirt, I exhale a deep breath then sit on a tiny stool next to the bed. I’m not a doctor, but I had ample experience mending broken bones and cracked faces during my childhood. My mom was just as brave as Dexter is being now. Not once did she cry when she was crippled with pain. Some days, her legs didn’t work, yet she still packed my school lunch every single day. I really miss her. More than I should.
Daddy said she is the reason I am sick, that the bug in her head transferred to mine when I grew in her stomach. I thought she was perfect. Her moods fluctuated a lot, but that’s what made her so much fun. There were days when she sang songs at the top of her lungs while painting my room with bright yellow sunflowers. Then other days she’d make the bathwater so hot, my skin bubbled with blisters. She was different, but she was my mom, so I loved her all the same.
Apology after apology rolls through my head when I pry Dexter’s shirt away from his wound. The drenched material comes away without too much force, but discovering the cause for the frantic flow of blood makes me gasp. Dexter has been shot, but there is no exit wound. That can only mean one thing: the bullet is still lodged in his back.
I smack my forehead four times, shutting up the stupid thoughts streaming through my mind. I can’t dig the bullet out. I just can’t. I don’t like blood. It is pretty and bright, but it generally accompanies death. I don’t want Dexter to die. That is why I carried him on my back for over two hours.
If you don’t remove the bullet, he will die!
My palm bangs my forehead until it is red and raw. I hate listening to the voices in my head, but this time, I don’t have a choice. She is right. If I don’t remove the bullet, Dexter will bleed out. It isn’t a matter of if; it is a matter of when. It could be an hour; it could be minutes. I haven’t watched enough crime shows to gauge a better timeframe.
Before I lose the courage, I plunge two fingers into Dexter’s wound. I freeze, surprised. My body didn’t respond how I anticipated. I thought I would gag, or, at the very least, squeal in disgust, but the stark coolness of his blood is too shocking.
Is this normal? Should he be this cold?
Ignoring Dexter’s groans from my fingers digging around in his wound, I continue to hunt for the bullet. I pretend I am seeking the shards of glass my mom hid in my dad’s porridge. It is like a treasure hunt, just more gory and tainted with the smell of death.
The gagging I expected earlier comes full force when my fingers curl around something cooler than Dexter’s blood. Its smooth surface leaves no doubt of its identity. It is a soul-stealing bullet.
My hands are tiny, but there is no way I can remove them along with the bullet and not rip Dexter’s wound. I have to hurt him to save him—just like my dad did for my mom.
I grunt in apology when Dexter’s painful moan coincides with his eyes rolling into the back of his head. The wound didn’t tear too much. He’ll only need a few more stitches, but his moan speaks to the torrent of pain raining down on him. After dumping the blood-smeared bullet onto the bedside table, I secure the bottle of whiskey in my hands. It is supposed to remove germs from the wound before I sew the hole shut, but my hands are shaking so badly, I take three giant swigs before pouring the remnants over the singed hole.
Dexter roars as violently as my throat burns from the amber liquid sliding into my gut. He thrashes against the mattress, his battle cries the loudest I’ve heard. Panicked his screams will alert people to our whereabouts, I muffle his mouth with my hand. I am shaking so profoundly, I can feel the rattle of my hand all the way up my arm. But my shaking has nothing on the frenetic quivers wreaking havoc with Dexter’s body. He is shuddering as if he is surrounded by six inches of snow.
Once Dexter’s groans simmer to a purr, I remove my hand from his mouth. I don’t want to get back to the next stage of my operation, but I don’t have a choice.
Last part, then you’re done, I say in my head, working up the courage to pierce a threaded needle through Dexter’s angry, red skin.
Mercifully, Dexter handles the sting of the needle much better than the burn of alcohol. He lies perfectly still as I stitch his wound in the same pattern my daddy taught me when we sealed my mother’s eyes shut. He is so motionless, I worry I clamped his mouth too long. If it weren’t for the goosebumps prickling his skin, I’d check for a pulse. Your skin doesn’t show signs of being cold when you’re dead. It goes blue and smelly. Sometimes it even slides away from the bones it’s covering.
My shoulders straighten when I finalize the last stitch. My medical skills are rusty, but the thick, white thread that contrasts with Dexter’s olive skin has successfully closed his wound.
Now you need to work on his plummeting body temp.
After sending a warning to my head to be quiet, I sling my eyes to the right before shifting them to the left. The owner of this cabin must be a daytime-only visitor because there aren’t any blankets or clothing in sight.
When I stand to inspect the cabin more thoroughly, my dress clings to my skin. Dexter isn’t the only one saturated head to toe. My hair is stuck to my shivering back, and my dress is so drenched, even my panties are soaked through.
While rubbing the goosebumps on my arms, I circle the old wooden floors. The creak of the warped material matches the squeaks of the mattress springs from Dexter’s violent shudders as he works through the pain, but my thorough search comes up empty-handed. I am no closer to discovering a way to increase Dexter’s body temperature.
You could. . .
No!I shout at the voice inside my head.
My daddy said getting into a bed with a man without my clothes on would send me to hell. I don’t want to go to hell—my dad will most likely be there waiting for me. I was only freed from his madness because my love for Nick triumphed over the love I had for my father. If it didn’t, I’d still be walking amongst the flames. I didn’t want to kill my father, but I had no choice. He told me I had to choose between Nick or him. I picked Nick. I’ve never regretted my decision.
