There's a body in the leaves.
You want to believe so badly it's a cluster of rocks you haven't seen before, some sort of animal carcass left untouched. But no, with one arm stretched out, fingers dirty and half-curled, there was a human body before you.
"Holy shit," You curse under your breath. It couldn't be. There's no way. This was such a good area, quiet miles of empty forest and private acreage owned by the quiet old man up the road. This wasn't the haunted residential streets of the city- you were out in the country to avoid this!
You pull your boot knife from its holder, a simple little thing you carried just in case. You scan the woods. The mix of orange and purple leaves nearly covering the strange corpse stands stark against the evergreens scattered through the area.
You step towards the shape amongst the leaves. A man, you're fairly sure, face-down in the leaves with some sort of latex mask. Fuck, had he been out here since Halloween? You inch closer, only a few feet from him now. If he'd been out here a few days already, he'd have started to smell, right? And the scavengers would've taken parts... but aside from the strange brown and black stains that mottled his outfit, he looked... intact.
God, those must be bloodstains! and worse, his sleeves have scorch marks across the cuffs. This wasn't some unfortunately timed natural cause- this man was murdered!
What if they were still out here? You're still as a deer under the scope, waiting for something to pull the trigger. Your heart slams against your ribcage. You can't see anyone else- you don't imagine any of the tree trunks are thick enough to truly hide anyone, either. No, there's nothing, no one out here. The whistling wind reminds you that you're alone, except for the body in the leaves.
Calm down. Maybe he had some ID? You could at least take it back with you to your house and hope to get some reception, if you're lucky, and you could tell the police immediately. You reach for his back pocket, fingers just snagging against the singed blue jumpsuit- the corpse flinches. Your ass hit the ground, crunching fresh leaves as you stumble back with a stifled cry. Breath, wet and labored, wheezes out of the mask, still face-down in the leaf litter.
Well, that changes things.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. The single bar of service connects twenty feet from your porch. Your arms feel like dead weight as you drop the pull to your sled. It took twenty minutes of fighting gravity and the man's unconscious form just to get him onto your little firewood sled, another hour to lug him back to your porch. Finally, you could call an ambulance and get this guy in better hands. You pulled your phone out of your pocket--
Something tugs at your pants legs, you glance down. You bury your disgust at the sight; the three remaining digits of his left hand- you don't look too closely as the shattered remains of the other fingers- grasps at the fabric, pale and bloodied and filthy and burned against the denim. Holy shit, how was he awake? His fingers twist as your thumb hovers over that first 9.
"Hey, hey," You try to shush him, but hardly dare move in case you injure him more- you'd barely been able to flip him onto his back and madhandle him half onto your sled, only discovering more bloodstains and scorched skin and fabric. First aid told you not to move people, but if you'd left him out there he would've died long before the paramedics could find him that deep in the trees. "I'm calling you an ambulance, it's okay!"
He yanks with his three-fingered grasp- nearly toppling you over. Even as injured as he is, he's strong. His other arm flails, reaching uselessly towards you- clearly uncontrolled, flapping against his stained uniform for whatever he was trying to communicate.
"Hey!" You drop your phone to the ground, alert to his growing agitation. You need to calm him, he'd hurt himself if you don't stop him. Crouching beside him, you catch his seemingly less injured hand in yours- his massive palm consuming yours with ease. His fingertips are cool, and you ignore the dried blood that flakes as you rub your thumb against his skin. He squeezes weakly and you hope it's not as hard as he can. He tries to move again, the motion stiff and wrong, uncontrolled. Did he think his attacker was still out there? "It's okay, shh, you're safe now."
The masked figure quiets, but keeps his injured hand twisted into your pants. You figure that's good enough and grab your phone-- only to have him start up again. For all the aggressive panting behind his latex, you slowly lower your phone. "Do you... do you not want me to call an ambulance?"
The mask doesn't move, the flat white face of his mask gives no hint to his feelings, but his blindly reaching fingers still at the proposition. "Okay," You start, feeling out how you can make this work, "I'll get you inside first, then we'll talk." His grasp loosens on your jeans and finally falls away. If it was from agreement or blood loss you aren't sure as his breathing slows soon after. You can't even tell if his eyes are closed behind the latex.
Fuck. If he died, would you be responsible?
Both the man's arms drop entirely, thudding heavily on the ground. Unconsciousness, it seems. You sigh. Would it be wrong to call now? You bite your lip. He seemed so intent on stopping you.
At least you could get him out of the cold and see what you can do for his injuries. Once more you fold his arms over his abdomen and pick up the cord to your sled. You hope his dragging legs didn't bother him too much.
The steps to your porch were a problem. Even lifting him by the shoulders, it took several minutes going back and forth between his upper body and his legs to get him up the three short steps and onto your porch.
From there, you dragged him by his arms into the house. You waited for a moment. You'd be getting blood all over the pristine cabin. Stupid! This was an emergency! You're careful to lift his head over the threshold and you work him just enough inside the entryway to close the door. You'll have to tuck the plastic firewood sled away again later.
Now that this massive man was in the house- still out cold- and safe from whatever had happened to him, what should you do? The first red-brown stain appears from the man's fingers, clearly having lost a scab in his grabbing at you. Right. First aid.
You rush to the bathroom and grab the little red kit from under your bathroom sink. When you return to the living room... he's still there. Why wouldn't he be? He's been seriously injured, and apparently has passed out again. please, you beg whatever is listening, please, don't be dead.
Now, you had to gauge his injuries- see what you could even do for him. From the first aid bag, you snap blue gloves over your hands. With a slow inhale to brace yourself, you return to kneeling beside him. From here you can smell the heavy scent of iron and copper, the metallic tang of blood clinging to the air. You take two handfuls of latex, the white face distorting as you pull it off in awkward tugs- each inch revealing more of his pale, scarred face.
He's... older. Wrinkles frame his face, mostly around the curve of his eyebrows without any laugh lines. You hadn't expected that- his strength was still considerable and from having to drag him around, he certainly felt... firm. It only makes your blood boil at whoever did this to him.
A long, thin scar curves over his left eye, which has more wrinkles than the right, and gray stubble that covers his chin and cheeks and neck scratches at your hands. But more immediately-- his short-cropped gray hair is rough with dried blood.
Carefully, you take his chin in your hands to tip his head to the side and look closer. The bloody mess doesn't tell you much, other than it's already dried and, perhaps, you can see the edge of a scab on his scalp across the left side of his head. With his head tipped to the side, a ripped wound across his right cheek weeps fresh blood onto the hardwood. You turn his head back to look at the reopened wound- the silver hair on his right cheek dyed a bright crimson red.
The scab on his scalp is more concerning. A head injury? That didn't bode well. It would explain how anyone got the drop on him. Even being older, he seemed to be fairly fit and definitely tall. Even strong, from his grasp on your earlier being any indication. A blow to his head early in a fight would do a lot for his attackers.
...and maybe that's why he was grabbing at you? Not because he didn't want you to call, but because his brains were so fucking scrambled he had no idea what he was doing. Fuck. You're so fucked.
You rationalize it away, telling yourself that it would take so long for an ambulance to arrive anyway. You could help him now. You begin to unzip his coveralls. You flush; he's completely nude underneath. It feels like an invasion of privacy for a moment- before you have to peel the fabric away from his body, separating slowly from a dark, messy scab over his shoulder. He's too injured to wait for decency. You had to continue, tucking the fabric around his waist, where it seems he was less injured.
But the more you see, the less you like-- his body was hardly human anymore; dried blood and massive purple bruises camouflaged every inch of his abdomen, front and back. He was missing two fingers off his left hand- the wrist bloodied and scratched. His right arm had several stab wounds- on to the same shoulder as the odd scabbing (realizing there was a deep slice only two inches from the other wound nearly had you in tears), another thin, bloody wound across his ribs, nearly invisible under the bruises.
And beyond it all- he was somehow burned. His hands and forearms taking most of the damage, but a thin ring around his neck shows where the latex began to heat up and melt against his skin.
Disgust overwhelms you. How could someone do this? He's a human being, a real person! You press your hand over your mouth and step away- focus on getting a bowl of water from the kitchen and some spare hand towels instead of the nausea and burning wetness at the corners of your eyes.
The bowl fills slowly in the sink, you blink away tears. Why would someone do this? Damage this severe, it had to be intentional. You don't know nearly enough about how to care for wounds this serious, what were you going to do? You're fairly sure he was adamant about not calling an ambulance. The faucet squeaks as you turn it off and head back to the entryway.
It takes everything not to drop the bowl- his gnarled and ruined left hand curls into the white latex- now spotted with blood. "Wait, wait!"
Water sloshes onto the floor as you rush to set it down beside him. This time he doesn't even try to move his right arm, instead fumbling with the mask with his left hand. You wrap your hand around his wrist and try for a gentle deterrent. Your fingers aren't even close to meeting your thumb for as big he is. "Hey, hey-"
He looks at you. You freeze, hands trembling against him. His gaze locks you in place; one eye is a startling blue-gray, the other is milky and scarred, a soft blue ring of what was iris, lined with that thin scar over his cheek. There's an edge to his gaze, piercing deep inside, an unspoken threat. Your mouth is arid, but you lick your lips and try to center yourself. "Wait, Let me clean your wounds, then you can put it back. Okay? Please?"
His eyes don't move, so intense you fear he'll burn straight through you. But he stops trying to twist the mask around, his arm rigid under your fingers. From the floor, his chin lifts as he tilts his head, not breaking eye contact. You can't make out what he's thinking, his face doesn't change at all through the exchange. But, finally, he lowers his arm.
A sigh slips over your lips, "Thank you." You swallow and finally look away from his piercing eyes.
"Could you... turn this way?" You motion for him, wanting to start with that gash on his head. He doesn't move, still staring at you. "Um, here," You reach forward- it's so much weirder with him awake- and touch his relatively undamaged cheek, still mottled in blue-purples from some impact, and gently urging him to rotate his head. He complies, though you can still feel his gaze on you.
You dip a cloth into the water, then lean over him, dabbing at the wound. As you remove the dirt and dried blood from his hair, the line of the scab is revealed, thick and curved. You trace the edge with a fingertip- it looked like the edge of a pan. You catch yourself as you touch it again, but if your prodding had hurt the man, he made no noise or motion to stop you.
So you rinse the rag and moved down to wipe across his face. He closes his eyes without you having to prompt him, so you work quickly. The left side of his face is uninjured, but as you wipe down the stubble over his neck, you find a small, circular scar where hair does not grow. You realize it's old as you touch it. But that's not what's important, you right yourself before guiding him to turn away from you.
The wound on his right cheek is bright red, reopened and leaking fresh blood over his face. You clean his beard before softly warning him, "This might hurt." Just as before, he makes no move, no sound, as you clean the strange gash-hole in his cheek. Your brow knits; you don't know how to close this one. Your hands shake as you move through your first aid kit, finding a tube of skin glue. It would have to do.
"Sorry," You say again, as you pull the sides of his cheek taut, and squeeze a few drops of glue onto his skin. You press the wound together now, counting in your head to give it time to cure and make sure it would dry in place. As you let go, you're quite pleased that his cheek is closed again, even if the skin glue has kept a patch of beard bent out of shape.
He grabs you- the gory mess of his hand curls around your forearm. You yelp and struggle to meet his eyes. He doesn't need to speak to convey his impatience, the hard edge even more obvious. "I'm almost done," You barely whisper, "There's a burn on your neck."
Your blood runs cold; gray eyebrows tighten for only a moment, his bottomless eyes narrowing-- and releases your wrist again. You nod, despite him having said nothing.
From the first aid kit, you retrieve a burn salve. It's a mint green color and is cool and soothing on your fingers. Does he notice how your hand shakes as you smooth the cream over the inflamed ring around his throat?
You finish, not bothering to make him lift his head to get the nape of his neck. He wastes no time in reaching for the mask again, this time his right arm twitching at his side again, lifting more coherently than before, but not making it much further than his chest. "You want it on?" You ask, already helping to spread the back flaps of latex and slide it over his face. He tugs the edge, pulling it down into place.
You can't make out anything about his face anymore. The mask is of someone's face, but the details are lost in the age of the latex. And this thing is old, cracked and wrinkled, strange inhuman lines connect the eyes and nose where it had been improperly stored. With the mask on, his breathing is louder- with the air forced out either the tiny nose holes or down through the neck, it whistles and echoes in the rubber.
Fuck. Maybe this guy's brains really were scrambled. But with the latex on his head, he seems to relax; his breathing turns slow and deep. At least you had... comforted him? He really was unreadable- even before the mask.
You sit awkwardly for a moment- did he want you to tend to the rest of his wounds? It's so much weirder knowing he's awake- even if he's hidden behind a mask. You bite your lip, hesitate over what to do- the soft creaking of rubber tells you he's turned his head again. The eyeholes of the mask are dark, completely obscuring his gaze- yet you know the power is still hidden inside.
If he wanted you to stop, he would've stopped you. That's what you tell yourself at least as you lift his left hand and dare to look closer. Nausea passes over you; his whole hand is covered in the rust of dried blood, but the stump of his pinkie has a soft, fresh trickle running over his knuckles.
The water in your bowl has turned pink, but you patiently wash his hand, attentive and careful to not disturb the remaining thick scabs over the stumps themselves. Each inch you clean reveals more burns and scarred skin and odd callouses. You definitely did not have anything to cover the huge wounds of the stumps themselves- you mourned that you did not see the missing fingers in the field. Though, you'd definitely have to take him to the hospital if there was to be any chance of reattachment. At least a rummage through your first aid kit produces extra large bandages which wrapped awkwardly over his fingers, but at least gave you the illusion that you were helping.
"Should really go to the hospital..." You venture again, as you slide around him to work on his right arm. Aside from the slow turn of his head to follow you, he says nothing. A concerning thought occurs to you: could he talk? He could move well enough- except his right arm, it seemed- so why did he not speak? Was it that head wound? You bite your lip, hope that if there was something severely wrong he'd find some way to signal that.
The shoulder wound is a scabbed over, rough, and in an irregular shape, the intact skin raised and shredded away from the otherwise smooth plane of his shoulder. You frown and touch the unmarred skin. It was such an odd shape, what could've caused it? A weight settles in your stomach.
"Can you sit up?" The mask stares at you, just barely listing off to the side. "Here, I can help." If you managed to drag him into the house, you can lift him, so you start to slide one hand under his unhurt shoulder-
His stomach flexes and with hardly any pressure on his hands, he lifts himself up.
It occurs to you just how tall he is. Even with you kneeling, he's already taller than you- your chin having to lift to try to meet his hidden eyes. It's not just fear that makes you avert your eyes, but it's what you tell yourself. You focus on the back of his shoulder- and it's just as you'd worried. A perfectly circular dark brown stain interrupted the soft skin. You bite at your lip and trace the scab with a finger. This was a bullet wound. He'd been shot.
Shot and hit and burned and had two fingers blown clean off. You blink back tears as you dig up two gauze pads and press one to each side of the bullet wound. You really should've called that ambulance.
A cursory glance and quick scrub over the rest of his back- all the way down to the curve of his rear that had you blushing and looking to the ceiling- revealed only extensive bruising. Nothing that broke skin, at least.
Instead, you move on to his arm. When you first touch his bicep, the man tenses- you look up to his mask again, flitting between the dark holes in a weak attempt to divine what he needed. He must see something, the latex folding around his neck as he tips his head at you, before he relaxes his arm again. Whatever he had tensed for and whatever he saw that made him cooperate again was lost. You really wish he'd talk.
Wiping the dried blood away from his bicep revealed the long, thin line of what had to be a knife wound. You can add stabbed to the list of horrible things done to him. There was little you could do except to wrap it, cutting off the end of a long bandage and sticking it together.
You moved down to his hand, a shallower knife wound across the inside of his wrist and onto this thumb was all that marred this one. The breathing behind his mask- made louder by having to force the air through the tiny holes for his nose- quickened as you held his hand, turning it over as you cleaned him. It was an odd wound to cover; a pad might be twisted off on his wrist, but a wrap would limit the use of his hand- the only real hand he had left.
You touch the wound again, feel the soft thudding of his pulse in his wrist, and decide on the wrap, half around the wrist and then half around his thumb. It might feel awkward for him, but at least you'd feel better knowing it was as covered as it could be.
With that, all that remained was his chest. Most of it was obscured in dried blood and beneath that, colorful bruising, but if there were any other wounds left unattended you needed to know. "You can lay down again..."
The man doesn't move any more than the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. The mask stares aimlessly past you. Fuck, you really did manage to get a brain damaged man into more trouble. Or-
You squint at him. He'd sat up before, without any help from you. He'd seemed intelligent enough to agree to let you mend his face before putting the mask back on, sat up when you asked him to, even if he was nonverbal. Was he... fucking with you? Or did he really want something from you?
You stand, your knees aching from kneeling so long, and hobble the short distance to the living room to grab a throw pillow from your couch. With the big doorway you can still see the strange man sitting on the floor- and you can see that he's turned to follow you with his eyes. You don't bother taking off your gloves, considering he's about to bloody the pillow that much more.
"Here," You show him the now stained pillow, "Please lay back? I'm almost done."
He sits there for a long moment and you worry he'll refuse and touch his chest will be that much more awkward- but he relents. He lowers himself back down, and you meet him with the pillow.
This time, he does not follow you with his gaze; instead he stares straight up at your ceiling, seemingly unaware as you wet your rag once more and start just below his clavicles. The hair on his chest is sparse, thin and gray, and you're careful not to pull on it too hard as you try to wipe away the dried blood. Under the blood, his skin is a vibrant mosaic of purples and blues, easing into greens along his sides.
His nipples harden as you wipe them, the cool water and cooler air drawing them tight as they're cleaned of blood. Under your hand, you can feel each inhale and exhale, strong and firm, despite all he's been through. You move down, cleaning away all sorts of grime- and worry for what these bruises meant. If any of this was internal, he'd die without proper care.
But he'd already been laying out there in the forest for who knows how long- Halloween was days ago now. If any of his wounds were inherently fatal, you'd been talking to cops and he'd be on his way to a morgue.
Or maybe he was just that damn stubborn.
You cleaned off his stomach, and through the layer of softness fit for his age, you could feel the firmness of his musculature, the same hidden strength that let him sit upright despite all the blood he's lost and damage he's taken. He twitches softly as you clean his sides. You can't help but smile, he's a little ticklish.
There, you notice something odd. You thumb at a patch of scar tissue, a tight, perfect circle of pale, taut skin. You traced over it, then noticed another, barely discernible under the heavy bruising across his torso. And another, just below his right pectoral- you wiped one side of his ribs down again and saw another. Each one perfectly round. Bullet scars? What sort of life did this man live that he had been shot so many times- and so long ago to have such neat, clean scars?
Just below his navel, the hair thickened in a salt-and-pepper mix. You are lost in the quiet noises of the rag dragging across skin, the water lapping at the bowl and dripping as you wrung it out. You wipe at his hips, right up against where you'd left his jumpsuit. And as you cleaned-
Your hand stills, eyes dropping suddenly back down to the skin of his hip. Your hand shook and heat washed over your face. He wasn't that old, it seemed- the loose, rough fabric of his coveralls tented, a definite shape pressed along his right thigh.
He's looking at you again, his head lifted to meet your eyes, watching in the dark cover of the mask- waiting to see when you would notice. His gaze pins you, makes your chest tighten and your breath come quick and short. Something traitorous inside you strains against every social instinct you've ever learned.
You shove it down. You pick up the bowl and manage to make it to the kitchen with only minor spills, the trembling in your hands uncontrollable as you pour the bloodied water into the sink and rinse it away until steam rises from your sink.
Count your breaths; the inhale, hold deep in your chest, and the slow exhale as you calm yourself. You scrub at the towel under the hot water, pouring soap over the ragged cloth and focus on the tactile sensation, even if muted by the gloves.
The gloves.
You look at your hands. There's a bloodstain on your forearm where he'd grabbed you, one more reminder that he was real. Real and seriously injured and in desperate need of real medical attention and in absolutely no condition for him to want to fuck you.
The latex peels off your hands neatly, a few stray blood spots are washed off under the warm water, and you almost look normal again. Outside, though the window over the sink, the sky has begun to change to the pink-orange of sunset. Almost normal again. Fatigue crept up on you, settling into the joints of your hands, crawling up to your shoulders. You'd dragged for so long even before the emotional strain and whatever the fuck just happened.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow you needed to talk him into letting you take him to the hospital or at least call a doctor. If nothing else you would have to try to get some medical advice on the internet. It had to be better than nothing. And tomorrow maybe he'll speak to you, instead of whatever he's doing.
You leave the rag and bowl in the sink, just another task for future you to deal with. In the living room you can't even be that surprised; the mysterious man has managed to stand up. If he could sit upright while sporting that many bruises and stabs and everything else, standing wasn't too far off.
Your eyes lock through the dark eyeholes while he stands, then you watch as he slowly zips up the front of his coveralls, hiding away all the purple skin you'd cleaned and bandaged.
You stand there, watching as his arms fall neutrally back to his sides. He's even taller than you'd thought when he'd sat up, easily towering over you and dominating the room.
"I have a spare bedroom," You say before you process the words. "You need to rest."
You don't bother waiting for a reply this time, instead leading him through the cabin and presenting him with the smaller second bedroom that was still furnished with old nineties decor as you had inherited it. You hope the bed is long enough for him. Soft footsteps behind you tell you he followed you, and you step aside so he can enter the room. The mask twists on his shoulders as he looks around, seemingly puzzled by the room or his situation as a whole. He turns, looking back to you in the doorway.
"Do you need anything?" You know he won't answer, but you can't help but ask. He was out cold only a few hours ago, face down in a pile of leaves and left for dead. He tilts his head, and you take it as a no. "Okay, well, if you're hungry, help yourself to the fridge. If you need anything I'm right across the hall." You motion over your shoulder to your door. "You alright?"
The mask straightens out again and for the first time- you cock your head, feel your brows furrow tightly. You're nearly sure it had been a trick of the light, something to do with the sunset- but you think the mask dipped forward just a hair into a nod. A half smile curled over your lips, a mix of amusement and... trust? Satisfaction? mixed in with it.
You leave the door cracked as you move to your room. The thought occurs to you to lock your door-- you had a stranger in your house! You don't even know his name or what had happened to him, but you'd invited him to stay the night. What kind of fool were you, letting a stranger in so close?
And yet, as your fingers hover over the little lock, you can't bring yourself to turn it.
You scold yourself and change into your sleep clothes, barely making it to brushing your teeth before you're yawning. The adrenaline was wearing off, the stress of finding a fucking body in the woods and caring for him and his apparent hard-on for you- it's all too much to handle.
You crawl under the covers, bask in the warmth. For a moment you stop and listen to the hallway- Would he leave now? Or before you woke up? It would be better if he did? You didn't need this sort of stress in your life, but you know you'll do nothing but worry about him if he does disappear. You hope he doesn't. Locking eyes with him was thrilling, there was something to him, something different than most people-
You hope you're not the curious cat.
You yawn again and settle deeper under the covers.
You'll find out soon enough.