'It may be rage or may be hope
I'm at the stage that I fear the most'
*
There's so much blood. Crimson stains the floorboards and pools at my feet. Everywhere I look below me I see it. Shades of dark red leaking into the crevices of my flat. The culprit is sat on the floor cradling his injured leg, screaming out in pain. It's so loud. Every time he opens his mouth it sends a shiver down my spine. I've never heard something so excruciating. What's worse is that I am the cause of it.
I shot Joe. My ex-boyfriend, the man that proposed to me. He's currently got a hole in his leg and I did it.
I hoped I'd never have to use the gun Harry gave me, let alone in the same night it was gifted. Life works in funny ways, though. Mere hours after I saw him, I had to use the weapon bestowed upon me for protection. It certainly served it's purpose, but I'm not sure the target is as much of a threat as I anticipated.
While I'm glad my aim was lowered, I'm still worried I've hit a major artery given how much blood there is. My shoes are drenched in it. Suddenly it's all I see. Blood doesn't shock me; it doesn't make me feel sick. Usually. But when it's coming out of someone that you care about, you begin to panic.
How am I supposed to explain this to him? Better yet, why the hell is he here?
Joe has never been the type to snoop. Though he's nosy, I haven't known him to dig through someone else's stuff. Most of the time he just keeps to himself. In the months after we broke up he was much needier, insistent on having constant contact with me and to know where I was, who I was with, and so on. Recently, that's changed. He's been quiet. Maybe even too quiet. It's been welcome; the sound of his voice began to irritate me but seeing him here only raises my suspicions. What the bloody hell has he been up to?
When I saw his face, I immediately dropped the gun to my feet. Another shot followed from the impact which hit my sofa. Joe's body jolted at the sound and caused even more blood to flow from the wound. For a moment it was silent in my head, my ears not picking up on any sound. Everything moved in slow motion as my mind grasped onto what had happened. It's like I could see him, but he wasn't really there. Just a figment of my imagination. Then it all hit at once, and I realised what I'd done. He's awake and stable now, but who knows if I've signed his death warrant.
Abruptly, I fall to my knees and crawl to him through the blood. It seeps into my jeans and soaks the skin inside. It's much warmer than anticipated. For some reason I've always assumed that blood would be cold, but under my body it's room temperature. It is thick, though. It sticks to me as I make my way over to him, my hands covered the minute I placed them down.
Once I reach him his face flashes with panic. He thinks I'll hurt him again. He's scared of me. No one has ever been scared of me.
I can't dwell on it. I have to tend to the wound and stabilise the bleeding before I do anything. I should probably call a paramedic but the thought of trying to explain this only makes the anxiety increase. My hands are shaking as they touch his leg. He winces at the impact even though I'm nowhere near the shot yet. There must be so much pain radiating through his body now.
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.
Once I exit the room I'm met with the sounds of his heavy breathing. He's stopped screaming, but I think that's because of the exhaustion he's feeling as his body shuts down. I take up the same seat I had beside him, and push a towel onto the wound, watching it instantly turn red. It's soaked within a minute. Shit.
Another is placed on top; this one takes longer with the other underneath. If I keep placing more it should increase the weight and stop some of the flow. That's the only plan I have. I could try a tourniquet but I'm not confident enough that I'll be able to pull it off. This will have to do for now.
'What were you doing here?' I question as I keep my eyes on my hands and the fabric below them. This will stain them, but I hardly care right now.
He takes a deep breath, hands placed firmly on the ground either side of him. His whole body is shaking at such an alarming rate, I'm worried he'll send himself into a heart attack. If that's even possible. 'I missed you,' he claims, but I don't believe him.
I look up at him with a grimace, tilting my head quizzically. 'Why were you hiding then?'
His eyes dart around below him as he searches a response as if it will pop into his head at any moment. It only tells me that whatever he's about to say will be a lie. 'I used the key I still have, was going to surprise you. But then you came in and didn't turn the lights on until you went to your room. At that point I couldn't just knock.'
I scoff at this, eyebrows raised at the absurdity of it. 'So instead you decided to snoop through my post and pick around the flat?' I ask with an exasperated tone. He goes to speak but I cut him off. 'And what makes you think you can just enter my home whenever you want? You can give that key back to me once this is sorted,' I warn.
He swallows deeply, gulping in fear. I never really snapped at him before, I always remained passive in the relationship. This has pushed me over the edge. Before he can respond, though, sounds below the living room window from the street travel up. There's yelling, lots of it, but I can't make out the words with the window shut. It could be the police. Perhaps someone called them when I shot. There's a silencer on the gun, Harry had added it on, but even I heard the bang of the trigger.
If it's the police, I'm fucked. I'll be convicted of attempted murder. Maybe manslaughter if I'm lucky. Then they'll charge me for owning a firearm without a license. They'll make me tell them who gave it to me and why I have it. I can't implicate Harry in this, it will drag the whole team down if the police go digging. But what if they already know? Hugo controls them, he may have informed them about Harry's activities. What does that mean for me then?
I could run. Flee the scene and disappear. Take on a new identity. I'm sure George would help me with that. They'll hunt for me but there's the chance they'll never find me. I can start over and escape this mess. Harry always said it wasn't possible but what if it is.
The sound of my phone ringing pulls me out of my thoughts. It's in my back pocket, stuffed in there from when I heard Joe's footsteps. I reach behind and pull it out, seeing Harry's name flash on the screen, but the blood on my hands makes it slip into the puddle below. It vibrates against the wood but stops after a few moments. Once done, I notice three more missed calls from him. He's probably checking up on me, but I assumed their meeting would go on longer. They looked like they were still in the middle of something when I left.
There's a crash in the corridor outside the flat, the sound of the entrance being pushed against the wall downstairs. I hear footsteps, a few pairs, running up the stairs. There's so much commotion out there. Joe has started yelling again, probably encouraged by the voices on the other side of the door. He calls out for help, before crying out in pain once more when I push down on the wound again. More blood soaks the fabric. I lean forward for another towel, replacing the initial one underneath. It drips claret when I lift it.
As I go to adjust my position, blood squirts out through the fabric. It hits my face immediately, drenching my torso. I can taste it on my tongue, smell it in my nostrils. The iron flavour of life. It makes me gag. I scream out as more spills, unable to control it. I must have knocked something when I moved, unless the bullet is still inside, and it's moved. I didn't think it could get much worse, but I'm mistaken. My hair sticks to my head as it's coated in the thick liquid. Some gets caught in my eyelashes, irritating my vision.
The voices get louder, followed by some knocks on the door. This is it. The authorities are here to take me away. At least they can help Joe before I go.
In a split second, the door swings open against the hinges, the lock broken. Someone had busted it down with their foot, and when I look up to meet the perpetrator I immediately sigh in relief.
Harry.
No words are said as he rushes over to me in an instant. There's so much distress on his face, his features scrunched together as he peers at me in apprehension. He takes a place next to me on the floor without even caring about the level of blood surrounding us. It was a moat he had to cross to get to me. His hands take my face, turning it to the side in inspection, before he grabs my hands and lifts them, searching desperately for a wound. When he stares down at my lap, he finally realises the blood is not my own. His eyes dart to the towels on Joe's leg that my hands have found their way back to again, pushing down on them as hard as I can to try and slow the bleeding.
Once he knows I'm ok, his expression changes into a scowl, grabbing my wrists and pulling them away from the wound. 'Harry, no!' I yell, watching as more of the thick, red liquid flows.
When I go to put pressure on Joe's leg again, he stops me, pushing my hands away. 'Atlas, what is he doing here?' Harry questions, eyes glued to my own that dart between him and Joe.
I manage to pull out of his grip as I answer, shaking my head. 'I don't fucking know!'
Joe has been watching us with wide eyes. It's like he knows who Harry is. I detect recognition on his face. As Harry moves my hands once more, Joe flinches as Harry's replace my own. His mouth is agape, no words able to leave. It's like the sight of Harry has frozen him in place. He looks scared, even. Not because he has a bullet wound in his leg, but because of my companion.
Harry has focused his attention on Joe now, inspecting the wound with as much concentration as I had. He lifts the towels to get a better look. Just as expected, even more blood exits the gunshot wound, completely blurring a clear vision of it. He turns to me before looking around the room for something that might help, landing on a large glass jug on the kitchen counter. 'Fill that with water and bring it back,' he orders.
I look at him in confusion, unsure why he would need it, but I do as he says. It takes a minute for me to stabilise myself and not slip again; I tip toe over to the kitchen to avoid any falls. For the first time, I notice the two men that entered the room with Harry. Both ridiculously tall, toned, and evidently strong. They look like ex-military professionals in all honesty. I lower my eyes and notice a dog tag around one of their necks, indicating I'm correct to a certain extent. The other has no jewellery in sight, but I spot some tattoos on his neck that are mirrored on his co-worker. They must be some form of security that Harry has set up.
My feet squeak against the floor with each step, leaving a trail of footprints on the wood. It will take a while to clean this all up after. I want to be rid of the sight as soon as possible. The smell of it is overwhelming, flooding my senses and making me hazy.
I grab the jug and fill it with water before turning back to meet Harry on the floor. Another towel has been placed on Joe's thigh, already stained red. Harry takes the jug and pulls the towel away, pouring the water into the wound. 'I need to wash it out to get a better look at it,' he informs me. I watch as the clear liquid mixes with the crimson, thinning the puddle on the floor ever so slightly.
Joe has remained silent the whole time, still staring in disbelief. He's allowing Harry to do his work, though. Once the wound is slightly clearer, Harry leans in closer to get a better look. It doesn't last long, the area quickly filling with blood again. I hear him grunt in annoyance, leaning back slightly. 'This is going to hurt a bit, Joe,' he states before abruptly pushing a thumb into the hole.
The screams that follow are unlike any I've heard before. The sheer level of agony in Joe's voice makes me go numb. It hurts my ears to the point where I simply block it out, hoping I never have to hear it again. He tries to fight against Harry but he knows he's stronger. There's no way he can move the hand on his thigh. Harry remains focused, concentrating on his fingers before pulling away as quickly as he went in, shaking his hand as liquid drips from it. 'I don't think you've hit the artery, but it's close. I need to lift his leg quickly; can you hold him down by his shoulders?'
I nod at the request, standing to my feet once more and walking round behind Joe. My hands are placed sternly in front of me with my thumb rubbing small circles on the shoulders while I await Harry's instructions. Even though I caused this wound, I want him to know I didn't intend to. I want to make sure he's alright, even if he was snooping.
Harry looks up through his eyelashes, blood smeared on his face already. In a second, he nods. I push down on the shoulders as Harry lifts the leg, Joe writhing beneath me. I'm surprised he hasn't passed out yet. I assumed he'd become numb to it by now. Most people do when they experience excruciating pain. The body can no longer handle the stress and the brain loses consciousness. For whatever reason, he's holding on to it. He's a damn fool for doing so.
The leg is placed back down, more towels on top. 'There's no exit wound. I need to remove the bullet as soon as possible,' he states, sighing at the news.
Joe looks up at me shaking his head and latching his hands onto my own. 'No, absolutely not!' he cries out, his eyes glazed over with tears. 'Take me to a doctor and let them do it, I won't tell them it was you.'
I take a deep breath, looking to Harry for reassurance. He simply shakes his head, indicating that it isn't an option. My knees bend as I crouch down so I'm eye level with the victim. 'Joe, we can't do that, I'm sorry.'
A single tear falls from his eye, slowly trailing down his cheek and falling onto his shirt. Even with his coat and the blanket, he's still shivering. If we don't stop the bleeding soon, it may be too late to save him. I can't have his life on my hands. I'm not sure I'll be able to handle it. The first time I shoot a gun and it could end my ex-boyfriend's life? This a sick and twisted game.
Harry directs me to find some supplies for it, and I welcome the chance to leave the room again. In the bathroom are some tweezers that could be useful, along with some more cloths and towels for the wound and to silence him when we try to remove the bullet. I can hear the two of them talking in the living room, something I know can't be good, but my feet can't bring me to join them just yet. I gaze in the mirror once more. I look even worse than I did moments ago when I came in here to fetch the laundry basket. The longer I stare the harder it gets to look away, even if the sight terrifies me. I can see my chest heaving up and down as my breathing becomes unsteady, but my eyes remain on my reflection.
The sound of yelling finally makes me break away from my own gaze, my feet running back into the living room. Harry has the gun pointed at Joe's head, his nostrils flared and jaw clenched in pure rage. I immediately rush towards them, knocking the weapon away. 'What the fuck are you doing?' I shout.
'Who do you work for?' Harry asks, completely ignoring my presence. When Joe doesn't answer, he pushes even harder against his leg in retaliation. Without warning, my foot comes to Harry's neck, kicking him to his side so he lets go. It's not as powerful as I hoped it would be, but it's enough to stop the torture he's inflicting. I fall to the floor beside Joe, not allowing Harry to resume his stance. 'Atlas, you're not the slightest bit suspicious about him?'
I turn to my right and glare at the speaker, a scowl on my face. 'Of course I am, I'm not a fucking idiot!' The minute he recognised Harry I knew this wasn't just a case of Joe being nosy and not giving me space. I never believed him when he said he was here to just see me, but at first I didn't expect he could be involved in something bigger. It didn't seem possible, but I'd be stupid to ignore it.
Harry huffs, standing and walking to the kitchen to grab some more supplies. Luckily, there's some vodka in the freezer, which I inform him of when he asks for alcohol. He searches through some draws and locates some knives, too, before walking back to us and perching on the opposite side to me. While Joe notices the sharp objects near him, I take my time to look down at the wound once more, pulling the fabric away. It's deep and will certainly take long to heal. He'll be lucky if he gets 100% function of his leg back without pain after this, but that's only if we get the bullet out.
As I inspect further, Harry rips Joes trousers at the seams, exposing the wounded leg better. He pushes the towels away once more, wiping the area as clean as it will go for what he has to do. 'You need to lay down,' he instructs Joe, nodding at the two men still standing idly by to join us. 'Hold him down for this.'
They do as their told, watching as Harry prepares the procedure. After pouring some on the tools, he hands me the alcohol before throwing a flannel at Joe's face. 'Bite down on that. It will quiet the screams.' More tears have fallen from Joe's eyes; he's so scared. I wish there was something I could do to soothe him, but realistically there's nothing that can make this better.
'Sterilise the wound, Atlas,' Harry orders, picking up the tweezers and knives. I nod, unscrewing the cap and tilting it so it pours into the hole. Joe winces instantly, trying to shuffle away from me but the men keep him pinned down. I continue doing so until Harry pushes Joe's legs wider so he can kneel between them and get a closer look at the area. He looks up at me first, almost like he's waiting for my approval.
'Just do it,' I whisper.
He nods, telling me to keep his leg still. The sharp weapons come closer. Joe closes his eyes, so he doesn't have to witness it. When the tweezers squeeze into the lesion, it's like his whole body convulses, even worse than when Harry pressed his thumb into it. Harry isn't gentle, searching around for the bullet in haste. There's a level of concentration of his features, his tongue poking out while he tilts his head slightly. Joe is screaming into the cloth, the sound barely muffled. Thankfully one of the men had shut the door when they entered earlier, though it's barely hanging on after being pushed in.
Harry pulls back quickly, the knife now on the edge of the wound. 'I need more space. This is going to hurt even more, please just pass out already, mate,' he says as he glances over to Joe. Joe tries to sit up in protest but is quickly pushed back. It's almost comical the way he's reacting, but there's no humour in this moment. One wrong move and Harry could make it worse.
Like rubbing salt into the wound, he hands me the knife with an expectant look. 'You have a better visualisation of it, you make the cut,' he orders.
'Are you crazy?' I ask, shaking my head manically in defiance. He has to be. No sane person would ask this of me. By the looks of it he has experience with this sort of thing, he needs to be the one to cut.
Harry pushes the base of the knife into my hand, holding onto the blade so it doesn't injure me in the process. 'Believe it or not I'm not a surgeon either, so whoever does it is fucked.'
The words don't convince me. I'm left feeling more fretful than I did before. Never did I imagine myself to be cutting into the man that asked me to marry him. Then again, I didn't imagine any of the past few months happening to me. These are the cards I've been dealt. The longer I sit here and contemplate it, the worse he'll get. He could bleed out, and that will live with me forever.
With the smallest ounce of adrenaline I need, my grip tightens on the knife. I lean closer to the intended destination, trying to steady my hand with all my might. Harry had taken a hold of Joe's legs to keep them still, his eyes focused on me. 'Not too deep, ok? If you feel pressure on the other end it's because you've hit the bullet. I just need another inch in diameter to get the tweezers in properly.'
The knowledge now in my brain, I bring the knife to his skin. I push down, the blade cutting through his skin immediately. The sound of his head knocking against the floor informs me he's finally fallen unconscious, which will make this easier for me. If I hear his cries I'll end up being sick. I need to focus. It glides through the flesh, pushing further until I meet the object Harry warned me of. I pull it back slightly, moving it a few millimetres at a time to make sure the cut isn't jagged, finally stopping when Harry tells me to. At this I fall back and watch him get to work. It doesn't take long for him to locate the bullet, pulling it out and dropping it next to his body.
'Cheeky little bugger,' he mumbles, watching it roll around.
The wound oozes more now given the greater surface area it spans, but at least the bullet won't have the chance to graze the artery. Harry grabs the cloth out of Joe's mouth, pushing it down on the incision before grabbing some bandages out of the first aid kit I brought out earlier. He wraps it carefully, but it's already leaked through. I suppose it's just to make sure there's something secure on it for now. He wraps some more towels around the leg, most now soaked through, then turns to his followers. 'Take him to Graham. I'll let him know to expect you,' he states, wiping his brow and spreading more blood over it.
The men follow their orders, one of them carrying Joe in his arms as they say their goodbyes.
Finally, we're alone, sat in the pool of blood, neither one of us saying a word. It's quiet again, just as eerie as it had been when I first entered the flat. It's a haunting feeling. The ghosts of my fears are watching over us and waiting for the perfect moment to spook me and send me into a spiralling downfall. But they're too late, for after a few moments of being alone, I crack.
My charade crumbles and I fall a part. Once the tears start, I'm not sure they'll stop.