The Winged [HIATUS]

Chapter Eight

“The wise man does not expose himself needlessly to danger, since there are few things for which he cares sufficiently; but he is willing, in great crises, to give even his life - knowing that under certain conditions it is not worthwhile to live.” -Aristotle

[ C H A P T E R  E I G H T ]

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My mother appears to have gone into shock. She stands in a puddle of blood, silently staring at the limp body beside her. Then her gaze slowly travels to the smoking gun in my hands. Judging by the astonishment frozen on her face, she’s still processing what just happened.

To be honest, I am also in disbelief. I just killed a man. My fingers begin to shake and I drop – no, throw – the weapon across the room. I don’t want to be anywhere near the vile object.

The clatter of the gun snaps Mom out of her stupor. Her attention is immediately drawn to the red liquid running down my left arm. “Aislinn, you’re injured,” she states matter-of-factly.

I can only nod.

“Luckily for you, I have a first aid kit downstairs,” she continues. Her tone is disinterested, as if we were discussing the weather. I’m guessing the situation still hasn’t fully sunken in. “I’ll be right back.”

I watch as she unlocks the door and scurries out of the bedroom. The barrier must have dissolved after Demyan’s death.

Not his death… his murder. You’re a murderer, Aislinn. You killed him.

I close my eyes and cradle my shoulder, trying not to think about what I’ve done. I had committed the deed in self-defense, but that didn’t change my actions. It excused them, sure, but the facts were still the same: I’d pulled the trigger.

My mother returns with a little white box and a pair of scissors. She kneels beside me and snips the netting with relative ease. I remain motionless as she treats my wounds with antiseptic and wraps my forearm in gauze. It stings terribly, but I bite my tongue until she is finished.

“We might have to stitch up your forearm, but that can wait.” Mom numbs the hole in my shoulder as well as she can and produces a pair of pliers. “I’m going to pull the bullet out,” she informs me. “It’s going to hurt, but I don’t have any other tools.”

The color drains from my face. “Can’t we… you know… go to the hospital?”

“Do you want people asking questions?” she queries. “Do you want the police poking around and finding a… a body?”

I immediately shake my head. If anyone found the deceased winged man, they would figure out that I killed him. And then I would go to court. And then the government would get involved, seeing as the creature isn’t human and everything. That would really suck.

“Good,” she says, placing pillows under my body and ushering for me to lie down. She hands me a rag and tells me to put it in my mouth. “You’ll want something to bite down on,” she explains.

I whimper and do as she says.

“Here we go.”

The misery is instantaneous. Waves of white-hot pain rage throughout my body like a forest fire. I moan and clench the rag with my teeth as hard as I can. I know moving will only cause it to hurt worse, but all I want to do is make it stop! It is only thanks to my superhuman efforts that I manage to lie still and suffer in silence.

After what feels like years of cruel and unusual punishment, the pliers come out – and so does the bullet. I remove the rag from my mouth and sit up, gulping for air. The flames are steadily ebbing. I examine my shoulder and see that the injury is already beginning to stitch itself up.