23. Lily
Chapter 23
Lily
I can’t move.
He’s on the floor.
He’s just—he’s there, face down, arms twisted underneath him like his body forgot how to land, and I think—I think there’s blood. Oh God. Oh God, there’s blood. I can see it soaking through his shirt, and it’s not stopping. It’s still spreading, and I don’t—I don’t know what to do.
“Oley—Oley, what do I—he’s bleeding, he’s bleeding and he’s not moving?—”
My voice cracks. It’s too high. Too tight. I can’t breathe.
“Dominic?” I crawl closer, legs slipping beneath me, knees smacking tile. My fingers are shaking. My heart’s screaming. “Dominic, please, say something. Please don’t be—don’t you dare be?—”
He doesn’t answer.
There’s a mask covering half his face.
“Oh, Dominic, what have you gotten yourself into? ”
His brown eyes—so full of warmth, burning gold in the sun—stay closed. Not a flicker. Not even a twitch.
“Dominic…?” I whisper, barely breathing. “Please—say something, okay? Just—just blink, or groan, or flinch—anything. I don’t care what it is, just…”
Nothing.
Not even a twitch.
“No,” I breathe, voice cracking. “No, no, no—please, you can’t?—”
My hands shake as I cup his cheeks, as if I can hold him here. Keep him anchored.
“You can’t leave me, Dominic. Please. I don’t know how to be without you. I don’t even remember who I was before you.”
Tears slip, warm against my frozen skin.
“I never even got to tell you—” My breath hitches. “I never even told you how much I—how much I?—”
I press my forehead to his, desperate.
“Don’t go. Please. Just stay. Stay.”
I drop to my knees, hands flying to his chest—somewhere near his ribs, I think, I don’t know. I press down like I can hold him here. Like if I just keep touching him—doing something, anything—he’ll open his eyes and say something awful and sarcastic and so him.
Or say nothing at all and just give me one of those brooding looks.
But he doesn’t move.
I gasp. Choke on it. My throat closes.
“I should—I should call someone. I should?—”
My phone. Where’s my phone?
The couch .
I stumble across the room, flinging pillows, leaving bloody fingerprints all over them until—there!
I grab it with fingers that barely work, and my thumb’s already hovering over 9-1-1 when something stops me. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something telling me not to make the call.
They’ll take him. They’ll think he’s dangerous—or some kind of monster.
They won’t understand that he’s my knight in shining armor—my prince charming.
If I call them—if I let them in—they’ll take him away and I won’t see him again.
And I can’t.
I can’t?—
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the phone, like it’s a person. “I can’t. I can’t lose him.”
I drop it. Crouch back beside him.
Blood is everywhere now. There’s so much blood. So, so much.
“Oley,” I say again, louder this time. “We have to help him. We have to.”
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I’m not a doctor, I’m not trained, I’m not anything except a girl who never got around to learning CPR because I thought I’d never need it. Because in my world, bad things don’t happen. They just don’t. That’s the rule.
But blood is pouring out of him, and rules don’t seem to matter right now, and?—
“Oh no,” I whisper, hand over my mouth. “Oh no, oh no, oh no?—”
I grab a dish towel from the counter and press it to the wound like that’ll help. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. It’s soaked through in seconds and I’m trying to remember—was it pressure or elevation? Wasn’t there a triangle thing on the body you’re supposed to avoid stabbing? Is that even real? What if he’s dying and it’s all because I didn’t read the survival guides in the back of those stupid magazines?—
I press harder. He doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t even groan.
He—
“Huh…”
I blink like I’ve just walked into a room and forgotten why, fingers sticky, knees aching against the floor, and there’s blood—everywhere, I think—but there’s no need to focus on that right now. Instead, my eyes land on Dominic, lying crumpled near the door where he collapsed, as if the floor itself pulled him down and held him there.
“Oh, right,” I breathe, sometimes I get confused over simple things. It’s embarrassing—particularly in front of my daddy, but Dominic never says anything about it. I pull his mask down so I can see his handsome face and stroke his cheek, leaving a strange smudge of red behind. I really like him, he’s my very own shadow, and it’s nice knowing he’s always there. “I forgot what I was doing for a moment.”
“It’s fine,” I tell Oley, though I don’t look at him as I push to my feet. I know he worries about me like the silly little boy he is. “I have a first aid kit. I always keep one—just in case. You know what they say, right? Prepare for the worst and it won’t happen. Or maybe it already happened, I’m not sure.”
My lips curve—gently, sweetly—as I step over a smear of red and head for the hall closet.
“Don’t worry, Dominic,” I say, chipper now, voice light as a dandelion puff. “I’ll fix you right up. You’ll be good as new in no time.”
“Oh, there it is,” I chirp, crouching beside the hall closet and yanking out the emergency kit. It’s enormous. Bright red and reminds me of one of those caboodles that were popular in the nineties. Although, this is not nearly as cute. The massive thing has about a dozen latches and at least two straps I’ve never figured out what to do with.
“See, Oley?” I say as I lug it into the living room, stepping over the red as best I can. “I told you I was prepared for everything.”
I drop to my knees beside him again, heart fluttering like a hummingbird on espresso but hands steady. You can’t have shaking hands when you’re trying to fix broken things. If you’re not careful you might break it again and then have to start all over. We don’t want that.
The latch clicks. I flip the top open.
Inside: gauze. Rolls of it. Packs of sterile gloves, alcohol swabs, tweezers, scissors, iodine, syringes I never figured out how to use properly but kept just in case. There’s even a few laminated cards with step by step instructions, like how to do different types of stitches. Who knew there was more than one? I pull out the one on how to assess a wound.
“Okay Oley, this says the first thing we need to do is locate the problem area, then the size and depth.” I pull out the scissors from the kit, they almost remind me of the ones I use at work, although these are a bit heavier.
His shirt’s already soaked. I cut it open and gently peel it away, humming softly the entire time. I read once that it helps regulate the nervous system, lower your heart rate, and even help in relaxation. Most of the time I’m not even aware I’m doing it. Daddy says it’s distracting, but I told him he should try it—he’s always stressed and he refuses to take a vacation. Silly man.
The shirt falls away in damp folds. I nudge the fabric aside, careful not to press too hard, and there it is—on his left side, just above the waistband of his jeans.
The wound is small. Round. Edged in swollen, raw skin. The skin around it has already turned dark—almost bruised—and that pesky red still seeps from the center slowly. I flip through the cards, looking at the various possible wounds, until I find one that matches Dominic’s and gasp.
“Oley! Someone shot our poor Dominic. That’s not very nice.” I shuffle the cards again and am disappointed when there’s nothing on treating gunshot wounds.
“Well, looks like we’ll be needing a second assistant. Doctor Google to the rescue." I laugh to myself softly while I type step by step guide to treat gunshot wounds in the search bar. “My goodness, Oley, this seems to be a popular topic.”
“Alright… this says we need to look for an exit wound.” I eye my very large shadow, contemplating the best way to go about this. I try to gently lift him but that’s not going to work.
“Dominic, darling, I need you to help me just a little bit here. You’re not exactly a small man and you’re heavier than you look, you know that? Like a very broody oak tree.”
I hook my arms under his shoulder and hip—bare skin warm and damp beneath my fingers—and try to roll him just enough to see.
“Oh my stars,” I grunt. “You are all dead weight, aren’t you?” Oley meows. “Well I don’t see you offering to help sir.”
His body shifts an inch. Then two. Just enough for me to peek underneath.
“There doesn’t appear to be an exit, which means it’s still inside. Well—that’s definitely not ideal.” I sigh, and cluck my tongue at him. “It’s alright, I’ll just watch a few of these videos. I’ll practically be a surgeon afterwards!” I pack the wound with gauze, just like the guide I found says to do, and then click through several YouTube videos.
“Alright, I’ll be right back. I just need to prep a few things and then we’ll get started. Don’t move!” I laugh to myself, brushing my hair out of my face with the back of my wrist as I stand.
I head to the bathroom and wash my hands, scrubbing them pink and rinsing until the water runs clear. I dry them on a clean towel and tug on a pair of gloves from the kit. They’re a little big, but they’ll do.
I return to where Dominic’s lying and kneel beside him, carefully setting everything out with careful hands, lining each tool on a clean towel like it’s a tea party for one. Antiseptic wipes, saline rinse, iodine, gauze in every size. Sterile tweezers, scissors, a flashlight, a suture kit still sealed in its little foil pouch. The tray makes a soft clink when I nestle the tools inside, and I add gloves—two extra pairs, just in case—and a fresh roll of medical tape.
“This won’t take long,” I tell him with a reassuring smile. “You’ll be back to glaring at Oley in no time.” Oley meows and I give him a stern look.
“Oh yes, don’t think I haven’t noticed the two of you and your silly little war.” He flicks his tail and I huff a laugh while shaking my head.
The antiseptic wipe stings my nose as I tear it open. “Sorry, I know this will sting a bit,” I whisper as I start to clean the skin around the wound—small circles, careful pressure. Red smears against his side, but I just focus on getting everything clean. Then I pour the Betadine and wipe away the excess amber liquid running over his hip.
I check the website again and make sure I’m following the steps provided accurately before I grab the sterile tweezers, and open the packaging. One by one, I pluck the bits of fabric and grime clinging to the edges of the wound free.
When the area’s clean, I sit back and nod once to myself.
“There, that’s much better,” I say, reaching for the flashlight. “Now let’s see what we’re really working with.”
“According to my doctorate from YouTube University,” I giggle to myself, attempting to hold the flashlight and tweezers at the same time “This sure would be easier with another hand. I don’t suppose you’re willing to lend me a paw, Oley?” He just flicks his tail again, like the silly fluff-ball he is.
“Well, good news, it doesn’t look like anything major was hit. No squirting, no weird bubbles, and nothing falling out that shouldn’t be. Just a very dramatic, slightly inconvenient flesh wound.”
I squint until the flashlight catches on something—just barely visible. A glint of metal. “Almost got it,” I whisper. My tongue peeks out between my lips as I dig, slow and careful. “Come on you little buggar—aha!”
It clinks into the tray like a dropped penny. I beam.
“There. Look at that! That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I swab the area again—fresh antiseptic, fresh gauze—and reach for the suture kit. “You’re going to be so annoyed when you see my stitching,” I giggle, lining up the needle. “But that’s alright. I’m cute. You’ll forgive me.” I start sewing. One careful, crooked loop at a time.
I press the last butterfly strip down and sit back on my heels, exhaling as I admire my less-than-perfect sutures. My gloves are sticky. My sleeves are damp. The floor beneath my knees is cold and red-smudged.
There’s a lot of red. It’s not my favorite color. I find it to be a bit too loud and maybe even a bit too angry. Although I do enjoy red flowers.
I glance at Dominic’s face, and my brow creases. He’s still so pale, almost like there’s no more blo—I look back at the floor, the towels, the gauze. Blood. It’s everywhere, and I mean it’s everywhere.
It’s on the walls, my arms—there’s even a smear across Oley’s fur. My breath catches in my chest and I try several times to release it.
“Oh no,” I whisper. “I… I think there’s too much. There’s too much blood. I didn’t see how much, I didn’t—” Tears slip without warning. My throat closes up like a door slammed shut.
“No. No, no, no, no—this isn’t right. He’s supposed to be better.” I need help, but I don’t have anyone I can call. Who do I call? His phone slips out of his pocket at that very moment, like he’s trying to tell me something.
I scramble to pick it up, nearly dropping it with my slippery fingers. The screen lights up—oh no. There’s a password. I go out on a limb and try my birthday.
0-3-2-1. I sigh in relief when it opens and smile down at him. Does that mean he loves me?
There are only three contacts in his phone. I frown. Even I have more than that, and I really don’t know that many people. Although, Dominic’s the only one that texts me—sometimes daddy.
Lily. Beckett. S.
“I guess I’ll start with the mysterious ‘S.’ What kind of name is that?” I ask no one in particular as I put the phone to my ear.
It rings once.
Twice.
Then a rough voice full of suspicious answers, “Yeah.”
“Hi!” I know my voice went high, but I’m just so happy someone answered. “My name’s Lily and um—Dominic—well he’s in my apartment. I did the best I could, but he’s not waking up and there’s so much blood and I know I should’ve called 911 but I couldn’t, I just couldn’t?—”
The voice cuts in, stopping my stream of nonsense. “Dominic?”
I open my mouth about to—well I honestly don’t know what I was about to say, probably more nonsense. “He lets you call him that?” the voice asks, a little too quiet now.
“Well, that is his name, Silly.” I’m beginning to wonder if this man even knows Dominic.
He grunts. Something rustles around on the other end. “I’m sending someone. To help.”
“Oh. Oh thank you! That’s so sweet. I was so worried and didn’t know what to do. It’s everywhere—My poor rug might never recover, but everything else is fine.”
The man is silent long enough for me to check to make sure the call’s still connected, then finally, “I’ll send someone to clean that too.”
“Oh, you really don’t have to?—”
Click .
The line goes dead. I stare at the screen. I hope he knows where I live.
“Oley,” I whisper, “I think I did a very brave thing just now.”
He meows, and I know he agrees.