“Okay. Alright. I’m reasonably sure there are no shards in there,” I told her when I was done, feeling a bit sick as I looked at her blood on my hands. “But this part… this is going to fucking suck,” I told her as I reached for the alcohol.
It wasn’t ideal. Best bet was to use a sterile saline solution. But I didn’t happen to have that on hand, and every moment wasted was a moment where something could get inside and start brewing an infection.
“Do it,” she said, putting my phone down on the counter.
Was her hand shaking?
Before I could even check, though, she was curling both of them into a fist and taking a deep breath.
Taking the opportunity, I doused the wound in the alcohol that had to feel like liquid fire.
Her entire body jerked hard, making guilt course through me, even though I knew it was necessary.
“Okay. That’s it. It’s clean,” I told her as I moved back.
Getting no response, I looked over and found her head ducked, her hair falling like a curtain, but her whole body starting to shake gently.
“Hey,” I said, reaching outward, trying to snag her chin, but she yanked away, likely trying to save her pride, not wanting me—of all people—to see her cry. “Hey, it’s alright,” I said, wrapping an arm around her, and pulling her side into my front. “You’re going to be alright,” I assured her, her soft hair against my lips. “Just a flesh wound,” I added, figuring maybe the facts would help her at that moment.
But she just kept shaking.
Was that shock?
I didn’t really even know what shock was.
In the movies, they treated it with, what? A mylar blanket? Did that shit actually even do anything?
“Hey, baby, I am going to need you to clue me in here, okay?” I said, reaching for her face with both hands, fighting against her when she tried to yank away. “Are you… shit,” I said, exhaling hard when I saw the tears streaking her face.
Louana, in my experience, was not a girl who cried. She had always been a tough nut to crack. And while there was a softer side under that hard shell, she just hadn’t ever been emotive that way.
So seeing the tears on her face, yeah, it was almost startling.
“Okay. It’s okay,” I said, pulling her to my chest, keeping my hand to the back of her neck to keep her against me as her tears started to soak through my shirt.
It was a few minutes later, as I still stood there, holding her, let her work through it, that there was a familiar knock on the door. But, true to form, Voss didn’t wait for a response before opening the door.
His gaze moved down, assessing her wound with a sort of dismissive interest that you might find from your average doctor.
“Gauze and tape,” he said, showing me a bag full of sealed items. “Got a heavy dose of antibiotic in there too,” he said. “Get that shit going. Pain meds are back at the clubhouse.”
With that, he put the bag down on the counter, moved out, and closed the door.
“Suture.”
“What?” I asked, not able to understand her with her face buried in my chest.
“Sutures,” she repeated, pulling back, and this time, I let her. But only a couple inches.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Gotta let this possibly drain. We’ll keep it clean and hope for no infection. If things seem bad, we will take you to the Grassi doctor,” I told her.
“Okay,” she said, tone numb, and it was such a foreign sound for her that I considered insisting we take her to the hospital after all.
But then I noticed she was just trying to wipe the tears off her cheeks, hide them, pretend like they’d never existed, like they hadn’t soaked my shirt.
This was Lulu, though.
She had a lot of pride.