“We made it.” I continue to half-drag his body into his house, unsure of which room is his. I go down the hallway and enter the only bedroom with the door that’s actually open, hoping it’s his. I take him into the attached bathroom and guide him into the tub. It requires coaxing, but I manage to safely get him in.
I sigh at the release of weight. My shoulder aches, but it's nothing compared to what he must be feeling. I could have plopped him into his bed, but he would have ruined his sheets the second his blood and dirt-covered body touched them.
My phone buzzes, but I ignore it. I don’t have time to deal withthatsituation right now.
Johnny groans as his head settles against the edge of the tub.
I stand and study him over.
He has numerous gashes on his face, the biggest of them on his brow. His nose is a bit more crooked than I recall, a sign that it’s probably broken. His lip is split, and he’s pretty much covered in blood. His palm rests on his stomach, clearly guarding some broken ribs.
I open the cabinet in the bathroom, hoping for some kind of antiseptic to clean his wounds. I manage to find a bottle of rubbing alcohol but nothing else. I check the linen closet but have no luck there either.
I kneel next to the tub. “Johnny. I’ll be right back.”
He slowly moves his other arm and reaches out toward me. He fumbles with locating me but ends up finding my hand. He leaves his on top of mine and mumbles something I can’t quite make out.
“I’ll only be a few minutes. I promise.” Despite whatever happened between us, my heart aches at seeing him this way.
I can hate him tomorrow, but tonight, he needs me.
I rush out of his place, careful not to lock myself out, and go into mine. I go straight to the first-aid kit I recall seeing under the kitchen sink and toss it onto the counter. I search the medicine cabinet and grab anything that might be of assistance: a giant box of Band-Aids and antibacterial ointment, along with a few of those butterfly strips that I'm hoping will allow him to avoid getting stitches.
This is all a long shot, and definitely no replacement for actual medical care, but I’ll do what I can for him given the circumstances. If he decides to change his mind and go to the hospital, I’ll gladly take him. In the meantime, though, I can’t force him to go if he refuses. And based on his pleading, he definitely doesn’t want to go.
I shove everything into a grocery sack and grab the kit on the way out. Earlier today I was ignoring him, now I’m busting into his house to treat his wounds.
I snatch the half-empty whiskey bottle off his counter and go back to him.
He groans at my arrival and reaches into the air.
“I’m here,” I reassure him. Although, I’m not sure how well that will comfort him in a time like this. I’m a complete stranger. A nobody to him.
Still, the tenseness in his face seems to resolve.
I unscrew the lid and pour some of the brownish liquid into the cap. I hold it to his lips. “Here.”
He parts his mouth and allows me to tip it in carefully. “More,” he manages to say.
I give him another capful and set the bottle on the floor. I grab a washcloth from the closet and run it under warm water from the sink. I wring it out and drop to my knees next to the tub. As gently as possible, I go to work on cleaning him up.
I start at his forehead, wiping away the dried-up blood and dirt caked to his skin. I do what I can to lightly tend to the wounds without making them any worse. I uncover a freckle on his cheek that I thought was dirt, and a few more sprinkled around.
I try not to concentrate on being this near him, my face only inches from his. I brush the brown hair off his brow and smooth it to the side.
He stays silent while I do my work, I assume drifting in and out of consciousness. He winces when I get close to the cuts, but otherwise, he lets me take care of him.
“This is going to hurt,” I warn him. I soak a cloth with rubbing alcohol and dab it into his brow.
He hisses but stays still.
I do the same to the other visible wounds that I can find and wait until I’m sure they won’t keep bleeding to apply the butterfly strip to help close them up.
I’ve done this one other time before, when my dad decided bicycling was a good idea and ended up wrecking in our gravel driveway about three seconds after getting on his bike. He had busted his knee and bumped his head, and of course, refused to get medical attention.
Must be a guy thing.
Dad had me run down to the pharmacy and grab these strips to hold the skin in place so he wouldn't have to get stitches. It seemed to work for him, but it's been a while, and I can't remember exactly how deep the wounds were compared to Johnny's.