ꜰᴏᴏʟ'ꜱ ᴍᴀᴛᴇ || ᴛᴡᴅ x ᴏᴄ!

094: ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ɪᴛ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ?

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"Where were you?"

Rosita's voice came from the stairs. She stood there, wrapped in a blanket, looking weaker than the day before. 

Sami stood at the door, having just closed it behind him. He'd tracked the moon and worked out where home was, but only just got back, the sun rising, casting an eerie glow over the empty streets.

"What?" He asked.

"Where were you?" She shakily took another step down, and he went forward to hold her arm. "You . .. you were gone, and there was blood on the bathroom floor."

Blood on the bathroom floor? Her voice sounded rather annoyed, but mostly concerned.

I'm okay." He lied. He was rather frightened by how easy the lie came to him. 

She looked him up and down, struggling to focus with her sickness. He was in sweatpants, bare feet and a black shirt. Which looked wet. Why was it wet?

"Where were you?" She asked again. 

"I-I don't . . . I was just checking. On the patients."

She looked confused, but too sick to argue. 

"Come on. Back to bed." He put one arm over his shoulders, then his arm under her back and the other under her legs, carefully lifting her. 

She sighed, leaning against his shoulder. "we're talking about this when I'm better."

"Okay."

He got her to bed, before grabbing water from the fridge he'd put in the night before for her, and helping her drink it. She fell asleep, and he made his way into the bathroom.

There was a lot of blood. A lot. 

It was all over the floor, the sink. Bloody footprints lead from the blood on the ground out into the hall. His foot prints. One bloody foot was beside his real dirty one, the exact same size upon the floor.

He didn't understand, and leaned against the counter. Did any part of him hurt? More than normal? 

He took a deep breath about to sigh, but hissed in pain. 

His shirt looked wet. 

Sami could feel it, then. The stinging on his ribs. 

It took time. The blood had clotted and started to scab, using his shirt. He had to break it, making it bleed again and the shirt just made it worse. 

But there was a large gash, from the left side of his chest down to the bottom of his left rib. He wrapped it, tightly, with the first aid things they had. 

He leaned against the sink, sighing, as he looked at the wound in the mirror. Had he done that?

He got what he need to wrap it, hoping it was enough, wrapping it tightly and making him feel like he was wearing a dog's storm vest.

He leaned down to the press, looking for the razors. They were a mess, in there, but none were bloody. 

Except for the one he found while wiping up the blood one the floor. Just beneath the sink. A bloody razor.

So, he was completely and utterly a danger to himself and others. He should've remembered to take his leg off before bed.

He wiped up the blood, and then cleaned and wrapped his foot, almost puking with picking out pieces of bark from the small hole. But he did it, wrapped it, and climbed back into bed beside Rosita, careful of the wound on his chest, and leaving his leg on. What if something happened?