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Deep breath.
The crappy smell belongs to the urine-filled cups along the road, so the intestine probably isn’t perforated. Good for him.That’s a positive.
What’s not good? The amount of cocaine seeping into his wound.
With the keys, I hadn’t realized I dragged with me, I run the metal teeth over the tape, sawing at it and studying Styx’s face for signs of pain. After I pry the two full bags out and stack them to the side, I check his head for an injury. There’s no gaping slash or anything, but that doesn’t mean no concussion.
I take my sweater off and turn it inside out, gently swiping it across his skin to remove as much of the powder as I can. Then I crawl back toward the shop, drag my purse out here, and take out the large steel water bottle carrier. It isn’t sterile, but it’s the only thing available to wash the rest of the rose-colored mush caking to his skin.
Water cascades down Styx’s stomach, trickling between the grooves of his abs and leading the paste away.
A liter.I empty a liter onto this man’s torso before tossing the bottle to the side. As the breeze rolls it over to the edge of the road, I grab my phone to dial the emergency number and put the call on speaker. Then I squirt half a bottle of sanitizer onto my palms and rub them ferociously.
It feels like an eternity passes before I press hands against skin, but it’s only been a minute, maybe ninety seconds. At some point between the demon crawl, goosebumps, and the coke discovery, my nerves had kicked into gear and have me on speed mode. It’s probably why the second the dispatcher comes on the line, I word vomit before a question can even be asked:
“I’m on Pink Street near the Crawl. There’s a male, in his twenties, gunshot to the torso. I’m applying pressure but... God, it doesn’t stop coming out.” Blood flows between my fingers. Looking makes my anxiousness worse, so I stare up at the dark sky. In a few of hours or so, the dusk will come and the city maintenance workers will be around to pick up the trash. Hopefully, the morgue won’t be picking up this poor guy.
“What’s your name, hun?” the woman with the kind, steady voice asks.
“Neve Cassidy.” I glance at the poor bloke. Pretty people end up dead here.
“Can you tell me if he’s unconscious? Is he breathing?”
“He’s breathing.” Tucking the phone between my cheek and shoulder, I drag my slippery fingers up to his neck. The beat of his heart pulses beneath my thumb. “His heartbeat is erratic.”
Probably from all the drugs in his system.A tidbit I keep to myself.
His breathing gains a whistle tone. I bring my ear to his lips and listen for differences in the pattern. “It’s hard for him to breathe.”
“Thanks for the information. I’m sending the police and ambulance straight away.”
“Okay.” I let the phone drop down to my lap as the woman stays on the line, keeping me company. With the rush, I hadn’t even realized she spoke in English.
“Neve, the police have been dispatched and they’re just a few blocks over, okay?”
I nod, as if she could see. Her accent didn’t seem too thick, so I guess she’s spent some time out of the country. Most of the people around here speak English when needed, it’s part of the reason why I wanted to study here.
It’s also the reason why I never fit in. They called me the Americana, made fun of my travel mug, and compared me to Sex and the City. I was either brilliant and a target, or invisible.
Too much American for the older people, too little American for the ones my age. I was never just right for anyone—well, that’s not true.
The dispatcher calls my attention, “Neve, the paramedics are also on their way.”
“Okay.”
“Do you see anyone around you? Anyone that can help you?”
My heart skyrockets as I scan the area for any sign of the living. It’s not that strange for the nightlife to dwindle down at this time, considering the bars and shops closed over two hours ago, but it’s vacant. No stragglers, no taxi cubs lingering around for the workers. No hooker waiting to score. We’re in the Red Light District of VilaMorres and it’s empty. “No one’s here. Nobody.”
“No one’s on Pink Street?” the voice echoes back my own concern.
“Shit,” I mumble, forgetting to pressurize the wound, so I shift around to put my weight into it. “Is the ambulance going to take a long time? I don’t know what to do. I keep putting pressure on it but what if I’m hurting him?”
“You’re doing what you can, just make sure it’s steady. Can you see an exit wound?”
With one hand constant on the entry site, I lift his shoulder a bit and roll slightly. He’s not that heavy or bulky, so little movement is required to see the poodle of blood beneath his spine. “There’s blood behind him, it’s not touching the one leaking from the front, so I guess so.”
“Okay.” Fingers hitting keys add to the silence.
