My first thought is to wonder how the hell she can be so drugged, but still lucid enough to diagnose me so effortlessly. Maybe her years of nursing training are imprinted on her brain somewhere, untouched by the heroin. Who knows?
She goes to leave again and I panic, thinking over my options. What do I do? What if she doesn’t come back? Could I take her as a hostage? But instead, she opens the door slightly and speaks to someone outside. I crane my neck, trying to see who it is, but I can’t.
She closes the door and returns to her first aid kit, busying herself with packets of gauze and things while I watch with disinterest.
She turns back to me. “I’ll bandage it in the meantime.”
When she pulls out a pair of surgical scissors, my eyes light up. Fuck, yes. A weapon. A sharp one. That I can hide. I fight to keep my face neutral, and watch with painstaking patience as she cuts around a large piece of thick gauze. She places the scissors on the table beside her and kneels in front of me, pressing the gauze to my large wound. I wince—the slightest pressure on my stomach agonizing—and try to focus. I look straight past the traitorous bitch who birthed me once upon a time, and feast my eyes upon the pair of scissors that I could stick in Dornan’s jugular.
She finishes sticking the gauze to my skin with surgical tape, leaning back to study her handiwork. I choose this moment to reach over to my left and grab the surgical scissors, quicker than her drugged eyes can comprehend. At the same time, the door opens, and The Prospect steps in. As soon as his eyes land on me, he’s airborne, launching onto me and crushing my hand with his.
“Drop,” he demands, squeezing my hand. I keep hold of the scissors, his weight on me agonizing as he presses against my freshly bandaged wound. I don’t let go of the scissors, instead trying to snatch my hand away.
But it’s useless. He’s incredibly strong—hell, a five-year-old would be stronger than me right now—and he pulls my arm around, smashing my fist against the hard side of the metal bed frame, sending the scissors flying. “Ahhh!” I yell, as my weapon is lost. I feel tears prick my eyes and angrily blink them away, trying to kill this dude with my eyes alone.
He glares at me, shifting off the bed. “I help you and this is how you repay me? Fuck, girl. That’s the last time I’m nice to you. The big man’s gonna let you rot in here.”
I tear my gaze from him, staring at my mother again. She’s fiddling with her first aid kit, drawing something up into a needle.
“What’s that?” I ask, sliding off the bed and backing away. I don’t want any more drugs. I’ve been numbed enough. I’m sick of floating in a half-conscious void of marshmallowy pain. It’s fucking depressing. And it sure as shit doesn’t help me breathe any easier.
The Prospect shoves my shirt back at me. “Put that on,” he says. “While you’ve got the chance. It’s the middle of fucking winter, cholita, you’ll freeze to death before Dornan gets back.”
I pull the T-shirt over my head, his words hitting me a few seconds later. “What did you say?” I whisper.
He just stares at me. “Hurry up, nursey. We gotta clear out of here.”
I back away, trying to get away from the needle. The Prospect puts his hands up in a placating gesture. “It’s fucking medicine. You don’t let her do it, I’ll flip you over and stick it in your bare ass.” My eyes go wide, which seems to amuse him. “The medicine, I mean. Damn, girl, he’s really done a number on that pretty little head of yours.”
I roll my eyes. I’m backed into the corner of the room, and there’s nowhere I can go.
My mother speaks softly, her words devoid of any emotion. “You need antibiotics. Your cut is infected.”
I hold my arm out to her, shaking my head in disbelief. “It’s not a cut,” I say, tears in my throat like a tight, hot lump of bitterness as I speak angrily. I wince as she jabs the needle into my upper arm and presses down on the plunger. It stings. A lot.
“Fuck!” I yell, snatching my arm back.
She shrugs. “It’s thick medicine. It needs a big needle.”
Now I wish it had been heroin.
“Fuck!” I repeat, massaging my arm. My entire upper arm is on fire, reminding me of the tetanus booster I had to have before I went to Thailand for my plastic surgery. Just a few short months ago. And that reminds me again.
“It’s winter?” I ask The Prospect. “What month is it?”
He waggles his eyebrows. “Now that would be telling.”
I roll my eyes, clutching my arm. “I’m gonna die down here, and you can’t even tell me what fucking month it is?”