The Last Wish

17. Styling with Stitches

She slapped him.

Matt was frozen in place, like a pause button was pressed on him. He still couldn't interpret what just happened.

Initially, he had thought she had slapped him for asking her name, but what she said next left him stoned.

He brought his hand to his red cheek and hissed at the stinging pain. His hand was stone cold against his inflamed cheek. It didn't hurt much but the shock was new.

No one had ever laid a hand on him, and if they did, they would also know it's their last breath.

By the time he had recovered from his temporarily induced shock, she had already left. He stared at her retreating figure, heated and cold. She sure walked like she owned the place.

He sighed, knowing that staring at the stranger-girl would not take him anywhere. He turned away and started walking towards the opposite side of the bridge. He mentally made plans to spend the rest of the night at the pub downtown with some procrastinating sloths like himself.

He pulled the jacket closer, trying to ward off the night's chill. He took his phone and dialled Edward's number, knowing he would be the 'ideal sloth' to kill time with.

Edward picked the phone in the first ring. "Not you again," he groaned from the other side of the phone.

Matt opened his mouth to say something sarcastic but stopped when he heard a plop sound.

What if she had jumped?

Dreading the worse, he turned around and started running in her direction. The cold wind whipped against his face, his jacket flailing behind him as he gained momentum with every step taken.

He came to an abrupt halt. Panting heavily, he looked down at the figure lying on the floor, arms and legs in all directions.

"What happened? Matt, you there?" Edward shouted through the phone. Matt realized he hadn't disconnected the call.

"I'll call you back," he said.

"Wait, dude---"

Matt disconnected the call and put his phone inside the pocket.

He heaved a long sigh, "what have you done now?"

He crouched down next to her still body. Her eyes were shut tight, her body stiff and tensed. He brought his fingers to her wrist and checked her pulse. Her hands were warm and soft like butter tea on a cold winter morning. The crucial thing was her pulse was there, despite its painfully slow progress.

"Um, hey?" he said tapping her cheek softly. No reply.

What the hell was her name? He rummaged through the details in his mind, trying to locate her name. It was then that he realized she never told him her name.

"You there?" he tried again. "Urgh, what the hell is your name?"

Again, no reply. Not that he expected any.

He stared at her silent form, perplexed on what he should do with her. He wasn't even sure if she was acting or just sleeping. She did say she had nowhere to go.

He tapped her cheek again, a little rougher this time. Still, she didn't move, not even a little stir. Now he was panicked, his heart beating with a new fear. What if she was dead? That wasn't possible, he had felt her pulse earlier.

He re-checked her pulse again for assurance, it was still there but gradually decreasing.

Placing his hand below her, he gently pulled her so that her head rested on his lap. He felt wetness trickling on his hand that was balancing her head. He pulled his hand from under her and examined it.