Chapter 14 #2
Heat flushes my cheeks. I clear my throat.
"Metal cuffs, sturdy and padded. Red silk blindfold.
Leather paddle, remote-controlled vibrator with clitoral and insertable options, nipple clamps with a chain that leads to a clit clamp, and that outfit.
" I point to a red leather number with crotchless panties, straps that wrap around the torso to a bra that sits under the cups but doesn't cover the nipple.
Blue chose wrong by putting herself in black lingerie. She's going to wear red when I dive into her fantasies with her.
Star nods like she hears this request every night and leads me through the displays. The cuffs are stainless steel with a luxurious red satin finish. The blindfold is thick silk and the paddle is double-sided with hard red leather on one face, and softer suede on the other.
Star claims, "It's just right for sting without bruising too fast."
"Great," I say, relaxing a bit.
She hands me a vibrator that has a small bullet for external, curved wand for internal, and single remote with ten patterns within a thirty-foot range.
It's rechargeable and waterproof. I add a bottle of high-end water-based lube and a set of soft ankle restraints, just in case, even though I've never used any of this stuff.
Star rings it up, and the total comes to just under four hundred dollars. I pay cash, take the plain black bag, and walk out into the cold again.
The drive to Blue's apartment is twenty minutes. I imagine she's curled up in her bed, waiting for me to react, thinking she's won this round by pushing me away.
She has no idea how wrong she is.
I park on the street outside her building, kill the engine, and sit for a moment, with the bag on the passenger seat. A sinister thrill burns low in my core, steady, controlled, but growing in intensity.
I grab the bag, lock the car, and head up the walk.
Her building is quiet, and the lobby is empty.
I take the stairs two at a time to her floor and step into her hallway.
I quickly move to her door and pull out the key she pressed into my palm Sunday night after I fucked her slow and deep on my kitchen table.
She whispered, "I want you to have access to me whenever you want."
Tonight qualifies.
I carefully slide the key into the lock, unlatch it, then slip inside her apartment.
I shut the door, lock it, and set the bag down on the console table, shrug out of my coat, put it on the coatrack, and loosen my tie.
I pick up the bag and move toward the bedroom, tugging at the tie and tossing it on the couch.
Her door is ajar. The curtains are down, so it's darker than normal. I turn on the hallway light, blink a few times, and freeze.
The vanity mirror is a shattered mess. Spiderweb cracks radiate from the center with shards glinting on the carpet like broken teeth.
Streaks of red lipstick smear across the glass in furious zigzags, and LOVE HURTS is partially legible beneath the chaos.
Tubes of lipstick lie scattered on the vanity top and floor, caps off, lipstick bullets broken or mashed flat with pins stuck in them.
Jesus Christ.
I drop the bag on the floor. It lands with a thud.
Blue's choked sob fills the air. I turn toward the bed, but there are only crumbled blankets. So I glance around the room and rush to the corner.
Blue's there, naked, knees drawn up, back against the wall. Blood-soaked, white bandages wrap her right hand. Another one circles her upper left thigh, tighter, and stained red in spots.
Tears fill her big, blue eyes, and her hair falls all over the place. Her shoulders rise and fall in shallow, uneven breaths. Copper, wax, and her jasmine shampoo flare in the air.
Guilt, concern, and fear crack inside my chest. The dark hunger I carried here disappears.
I kneel in front of her, muttering, "Jesus, Bluebird. What did you do to yourself?"
Mascara streaks down her cheeks in black rivers. Her red-rimmed eyes shine with heartbreaking wreckage. For a second, she stares, like she's not sure I'm real. Then her lips part. Her barely audible voice cracks, "Red."
My eyes flick to the bandages on her thigh. The blood is fresh enough that it's still spreading slowly. I keep my voice level. "How deep are your cuts?"
She swallows. "Not…not stitches. Just…shallow."
I reach out, slow, and lift her bandaged hand. The gauze is damp and heat flares past the bandage. "What did you cut yourself with?"
"That one wasn't intentional," she admits.
Intentional, meaning she meant to create her thigh wound.
Anger mixes with sadness deep inside me. I sit next to her and slide my arm behind her, tugging her head to my chest. I kiss the top of her hair. "How did it happen?"
She sputters, "The-the-the glass did it." A loud sob vibrates against my chest. Her entire body shakes harder.
"Shh. It's okay, Bluebird," I lie.
Her self-harm is getting worse.
I let her cry until she calms a bit. Then I ask, "How did the mirror break?"
A bitter little laugh escapes her. "I punched it after I wrote on it. That's how my hand got injured. But I didn't mean for it to happen. I only meant for the pins to hurt me."
Pins.
I glance at her thigh and the blood spots. My stomach twists. I lift the hem of her dress higher, and ask, "Why the thigh?"
Her breath hitches. "I… I don't know. I... I just needed to feel in control of the pain."
Christ.
The twisted eagerness I carried here no longer exists. Fury at myself for letting it get this far, and a bone-deep need to fix it, takes hold. Yet I'm a trained professional. I know that while I can help, Blue has to work on fixing herself.
I should have been focusing on her mental health.
Her body violently trembles.
I tighten my hold. "Shhh. I'm here, Bluebird."
It takes a while before she settles.
I carefully state, "I want to see the wounds. Can I do that?"
She lifts her head from my chest. Guilt fills her expression. She whispers, "I'm sorry." More tears fall.
I wipe them. "I know. Let's go into the bathroom, okay?"
She nods, her face scrunched.
I help her up, guide her to the bathroom, and put her on the counter. Very carefully, I take the bandages off.
The skin on her thigh is angry red, dotted with a dozen small puncture wounds. Some still weep; others have the beginning stages of crusting. None of the marks are deep enough for serious damage, but they're enough to hurt like hell. If she keeps doing it, her skin will get scarred.
The cut on her hand is deeper than the pin marks. Blood oozes and doesn't clot over her knuckles. Skin pulls wide apart, and a shard of glass sits embedded in the corner of her pointer finger.
I ask, "How long ago did this happen?"
She shrugs. "I-I don't know. It was still light out."
I take fresh gauze, wrap her hand tightly, and tell her to hold it tight, while I wash her thigh. I clean her leg with antiseptic, and she hisses in pain.
"I'm sorry. It'll stop stinging in a minute," I tell her.
She watches me as silent tears track down her cheeks again.
I pat her thigh dry, apply antibiotic ointment, rewrap it with fresh gauze, and then tape it. I announce, "Your hand needs stitches. I'm taking you to the hospital."
"What? No." She shakes her head. "It'll stop bleeding soon."
I slide my hands over her cheeks. In a firm voice, I assert, "No. It won't. We're going."
Blue's eyes widen, and fresh panic flicks across her face. "Red, no. They'll ask questions. They'll think—"
"They'll think you need stitches, because you do. And you have a piece of glass stuck in your knuckle. It needs to be removed," I say in the same calm tone I use when a patient is spiraling and needs an anchor, and add, "We're not debating this. You're going."
She opens her mouth, closes it, then drops her gaze to the floor. A long, shaky breath escapes her. She mumbles, "Okay."
Relief loosens the knot in my chest, but only slightly. I help her down from the counter, steadying her when her knees wobble. I lead her into the bedroom, open her dresser drawers, and pull out soft black joggers, an oversized charcoal sweater that swallows her frame, and thick socks.
She stands passively while I ease the top over her head, then guide her arms into the sleeves. The fabric dwarfs her, making her look smaller, more fragile.
I kneel to help her step into the joggers, sliding them up slowly over the bandaged thigh. She winces once when the waistband brushes the gauze, but doesn't complain.
I help her with her socks and tennis shoes, and grab her coat from the closet. I drape it over her shoulders, smooth her hair back as best I can with my fingers, then press a soft kiss to her forehead, murmuring, "You're safe. I've got you."
She nods, eyes glassy again, but she doesn't cry.
The drive to the nearest ER is quiet. Chicago's streets are slick with early evening drizzle, streetlights smearing wet gold across the windshield.
Blue stares out the passenger window, her fingers twisting in her lap. I keep one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her knee with light, grounding pressure. She doesn't pull away.
At the hospital, the ER waiting room is half full. A coughing kid has a fever, an elderly man clutches his arm, and the low murmur of a TV plays reruns. I check her in at triage, giving her name, birthdate, and chief complaint being a deep laceration to the right hand, with glass embedded.
The nurse glances at the blood-soaked bandage and nods us toward a curtained bay.
A young resident in his early thirties, with tired eyes behind wire frames, pulls the curtain closed and introduces himself as Dr. Patel.
He unwraps the gauze carefully, examines the hand, and frowns at the shard still glinting in her pointer finger knuckle.
He declares, "This needs to come out and get sutured. How did this happen?"
Blue's gaze darts to me, then back to the doctor. Her voice comes out small. "I was doing dishes. The glass slipped. I tried to catch it, and it shattered in my hand."
Dr. Patel nods, with no judgment in his expression.
I'm sure he's heard worse stories and seen worse lies.
Blue's is believable, so he doesn't question it and replies, "Accidents happen.
We'll get some local anesthetic, remove the fragment, clean it, and close it with sutures.
Probably six or seven. You'll need to keep it dry and elevated for a few days. Any other injuries?"
Blue hesitates a fraction too long. "No."
He tilts his head. "Are you sure?"
She nods. "Yes. Sorry. I'm shook up over this. I hate blood."
He studies her a moment, looks at me, then back at her. "Alright. I'll have the nurse start an IV for pain meds and antibiotics, just in case. We'll get X-rays to make sure there's no more serious damage." He steps out and speaks to someone.
I put my arm around Blue and kiss her head again.
A tech takes her to get imaging done. She comes back and a nurse appears with supplies.
Blue flinches when the needle goes in for the lidocaine, but she stays quiet. I keep my hand on her shoulder, my thumb stroking small circles. She reaches up with her good hand and grips my wrist like a lifeline.
When the doctor returns, he announces, "Good news. X-rays are clear of any more serious damage." He checks that the area is numb and uses tweezers to extract the shard.
He almost has it out when Blue hisses through clenched teeth.
"Sorry, thought we numbed it up enough," he offers, then flushes the wound thoroughly.
He yanks the rest of it out, and she winces.
He sutures the wound with neat, even stitches, applies a fresh dressing, then instructs, "Take all the antibiotics until they are gone.
The stitches will dissolve. Follow up with your primary in a week to check healing.
If the pain gets worse, redness spreads, or you develop a fever, come back immediately. "
Blue nods mutely.
"Thank you, Dr.," I say.
"Sure. Take care." He disappears.
A nurse arrives with discharge paperwork. I take it and lead Blue through the hospital.
She leans into me. Her voice is barely audible. "Thank you."
I kiss the top of her head. "Always." I tug her closer to me.
Outside, the rain has stopped. The night air is cold and clean. I help her into the car and secure her buckle. She falls asleep against the window on the drive home.
She barely wakes when I slide my arms under her body and get her out of the car. She snuggles into my chest as I carry her into the building. I unlock her front door and get her settled in bed.
The shattered mirror still glares from the vanity, and lipstick, stuck with pins, mocks me under the hallway light. So I quietly clean it all up and take her vanity out of her apartment and toss it in the dumpster.
When I return, there's no more evidence of her afternoon nightmare. I slide in bed beside her, pull her against my chest, and listen to her steady breathing, wondering how I'm going to get her to stop hurting herself.