Winter Hymnal

Chapter One: -..And Turn The White Snow Red As Strawberries In The Summertime..

"I gotcha-..I gotcha Sixer , hang in there!"

Stanley leapt out of Fiddleford's truck, Ford held tight in his arms, running for the door of the cabin. Ford was breathing raggedly and screaming into his shoulder, his face buried in his brother's sleeve. Hot tears streamed down his face and soaked Stan's shirt, but he didn't care.

Ford was hurt. Ford was hurt because he let him wander away.

Fiddleford rushed behind them hauling the medical kit. He sprinted ahead of Stanley and hurriedly unlocked the front door. All at once they burst through the entryway and made a dash for Stanford's room in the attic.

While Fiddleford ran into the bathroom to wash his hands, Stan immediately made for the bed, sitting down and leaning back against the headboard,  allowing Ford to lay on his chest. His upper back was all but filleted open. His button down was shredded. Blood flowed freely from the red, angry wounds.

As he continued hollering, his cries became weaker, and his breathing shallowed. Stan could only hold his brother and repeat over and over "I've got you Sixer..I'm here..I've got you.." As Ford wailed into his chest.

At last Fiddleford returned from the bathroom, carrying his med kit and a pair of scissors. He carefully hovered over Stanford on the bed and began cutting away the fabric from his shirt. After a moment, he'd cut a line all the way up the back of the shirt and helped Stanley pull it off of him so he could better assess the damage.

The unscored flesh was drenched in blood, so it was hard to tell where exactly the lacerations started and stopped. Fidd pulled out a pack of sanitary wipes from his kit and began wiping down Ford's back.

"There's so much blood..I can't see where I'll have to sew.." The antibacterial solution in the wipes stung horribly when exposed to an open wound, causing Ford to tense up and whimper in Stanley's arms throughout the process.

Stan simply shushed his brother in a comforting fashion, and continued to let him hug him tightly.

Fiddleford tossed the soiled wipes aside and reached back into his kit, pulling out a curved needle and surgical thread.

"Stanley, are you going to lay with him while I suture the wounds? I need to know now, because you can't change your mind in the middle. It would be too dangerous to move him."

Stan looked down at his brother. He seemed to be resting a moment. He was breathing heavy, and he'd stopped screaming. He no longer had the energy. Exhaustion was getting to him. He looked back up to answer Fiddleford, who was threading his needle.

"I'm not letting him go again."

"Would you mind lying flat, then? So his back isn't so tensed up." Stan complied and got a better hold on Ford before scooting them both forward on the bed so that he was lying on his back with Ford sprawled over his chest. His brother whined softly in protest at the movement, and then again as Fiddleford cleaned his wounds a second time, with a stronger antibacterial solution.

Ford's eyes were closed tight. Stan was glad for that. He'd be crying again if he saw Fiddleford prepping the needle.

"Alright. I'm gonna start..I..I don't even know where to start.. He..he needs a lot of stitches, Stanley. This is gonna be a long, painful process. You'll need to be prepared to restrain him."