Legendary // H.S

34.

When I look at his face again, there's a thick layer of sweat on his brow. His face is pale, lips almost blue, teeth chattering. 'Are you cold?' I ask, watching his body tense at my words.

He simply nods with a shaky breath. Instinctively, I reach forward for the blanket draped over the sofa and pull it around his body. His eyes meet me and there's a flicker of appreciation in them, but it disappears as quickly as it came. On the contrary, the flat is warm. The heating isn't on, but spring is under way and temperatures have picked up as of late. He shouldn't be shivering. Why is he?

It feels like my brain is moving too fast for me. It's thinking at such a high speed I can't seem to understand it. The cogs are spinning, wheels out of control. There's not much that I know about treating gunshot wounds. It's one of the last injuries I ever thought I'd witness given the laws in this country. All I know is to put pressure on something that's bleeding heavily to try and slow it, and even then I only picked that up from TV shows.

My fingers ghost his leg again and he sucks in a sharp breath. 'Joe, I have to put pressure on it, you need to let me touch the wound,' I inform him. He shakes his head rapidly, his eyes wide at the thought. 'You'll bleed out and die if I don't!' I yell. Death. The last thing I wanted on my hands. His breathing falters at the words, hands coming up between us and convulsing. 'Please,' I beg. My voice cracks as I speak.

Finally, he nods. It's timid, frightened, but a confirmation that I can do what's needed to save his life. I go slow, letting my hands rest on it first so he can adjust to the sensation. The minute they reach the wound his body jolts and he screams out. Even more blood leaks, spilling through the gaps of my fingers and dripping down his leg.

Without warning, I push down on it. His hands grab my arms to pull me away, but I keep my strength and shake my head. This is what has to be done, it's the only way I can control this. What they don't tell you in the TV shows is that not everyone becomes numb with adrenaline after their shot. Right now, Joe is probably in unimaginable pain and it will only get worse if we don't control this. I don't even know if there's an exit wound. If the bullet is lodged in him, we'll need to get it out fast before it damages any of the surrounding tissue and veins. It could be why there's so much blood. In the back of my mind I fear it's the artery.

My hands start to slip off with how wet they are. The pressure isn't helping, I need something sturdier that can soak up some of the blood. The only thing near us is the blanket draped around his shoulders, and I don't want to remove that if he's feeling cold. I'll have to leave him to go and get something.

I look up at him with panicked eyes. He can already sense that my current approach isn't working. 'Go, get something else,' he orders. I nod and stand to my feet, looking around the room for anything that can help. It needs to be a thick material that can hold for a while before we replace it with another. There's a laundry basket in the bathroom, perhaps some towels.

My feet pick up their pace, slipping slightly on the blood but I manage to keep my balance. It's silent again when I step into the bathroom, but it doesn't bring me peace. Instead I'm left alone with my own thoughts. As I walk by the mirror above the sink, I catch a glimpse of myself. There's blood covering my entire body, smears on my face where I tried to move my hair or wipe the stray tears that dared to fall.

If anyone saw me they'd think I was the one that had been hurt. It's like I've been swimming in it. A deep lake that is filled with the remains of human life. This is all my fault.

My brain kicks back into gear, pulling me towards the basket. I dig through and grab what I can, along with the first aid kit from under the sink. I doubt there's much I can use in there, but in my naivety I hope there's a miracle.