I push the tweezers in, digging for the bullet.
She doesn’t move.
She doesn’t hiss.
Scream.
Cry.
Did she pass out from the pain? Die of a sudden heart attack?
No, she’s still breathing.
“Will you hurry up? This isn’t exactly enjoyable for me, you know?”
I laugh. “Deep breath, Liesel.”
And then I yank the bullet out on her exhale.
I plop the bullet and tweezers into a plastic bag and then apply gauze to her shoulder to stop the bleeding.
“Hard part’s over.”
“Really? I imagine the stitches aren’t a cakewalk.”
“Staples are faster.”
“Let’s go with the staples then,” Liesel says, flashing me a grin over her shoulder.
I grab the bottle of scotch and hold it up to her lips. “Take one more sip.”
She grips the bottle with her good arm and starts drinking while I apply the three quick staples into her back. Then I secure a gauze bandage to the wound and wipe the blood from her back and arm.
“All done,” I say.
She nods and rests the bottle between her legs on the bed.
I gather up the supplies, put them back in the bag, and carry them into the bathroom, where I catch a glance of myself in the mirror.
I’m a monster.
She deserves better.
When I walk back into the bedroom, I lock eyes with her.
Liesel—the badass motherfucker.
My huntress.
My liar.
Mine.
I won’t fail you again.
And to prove it, I say two little words I never thought I’d say to her.
“I’m sorry.”