The Boy with the Whiplash Tattoo

Thirty seven

"Camilla!"
The voice was blurry and half-formed, as if from a lifetime away. I groaned and mumbled incoherently, trying to escape the hands that shake me awake. But they insisted, until my eyes stumbled open and Aaron's face filled my view.
"Baby," I was confused for a moment, unused to him calling me this. "You're bleeding."
I bolted out of bed, panic taking control of my limbs. I was worried before I even realised that I'd understood the implications of his words.
Sure enough the white bed sheet was a harsh contrast against the spreading red. I looked down and see that my thighs were sticky and warm, and more blood seemed to be gushing from me.
"Mum!" I squeaked, and collapsed to my knees as my head spun and my hands shook. He was beside me in an instant, hands on my shoulders, holding me against his chest, murmuring soft and reassuring in my ear. I couldn't help but think that maybe death was what it would take for him to stay this way.
Every sound was muffled. I drifted in and out of consciousness, but I knew there were strangers faces now, and cold metal things pressed against my skin, and then I was being carried, and one thought plagued me. I was losing. What it is I was losing I was unsure of.