Saoirse
The O’connelly House
My hands are shaking as I press down on Pa’s wound. Blood gushes out between my fingers.
He’s lost so much already.
Maybe too much.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please, Pa… don’t die on me. Don’t leave me.”
His eyes flutter open. Even his irises look like they’ve lost color. Is that what it looks like when the life drains from someone’s body?
“Someone help,” I cry out, trying to raise my voice over my own sobs. “Someone help—”
“No,” Pa croaks, his jowls jerking from the effort of speaking. “Don’t. No one can see. Inside… inside… house.”
I look around at the dark, suburban quiet of our neighborhood.
Three other homes are dotted around the loop. No lights turn on. No one comes out. Nothing moves.
How is it possible that my world imploded into chaos and not a damn soul has noticed?
“I can’t,” I plead. “If I let go now, you’ll bleed out.”
“Call T… Tris… Tristan,” he stammers, spit and blood spewing from his mouth.
My insides twist uncomfortably. “Tristan?” I balk. “Pa, no. Not him.”
“Do it, Saoirse!” His eyes are wild. Terrified.
Ignoring his instructions, I grab hold of him and try to hoist him to his feet. My arms nearly give way from the struggle, but I manage to get him upright.
He leans against me, replacing my hand with his own against the gunshot wound on his lower stomach.
Together, we clumsily stumble for the front door.
He’s still alive. He can walk. He can talk. He can think.
Maybe we’ll survive this.
But we’re a long way from in the clear just yet.
I get him as far as the carpet in the living room before my arms give out only a few feet away from the couch. His knees keel forward and I do all I can to cushion his landing a little.
“Call him,” Pa says again as he gasps on the floor. “Quickly…”
I ignore him again. I’m not calling that son of a bitch. We don’t need him.
I get to my feet and rush into the kitchen, pretending not to understand his frustrated growls.
I grab an old sheet and cut out a long strip before rushing back into the living room. Then I use the strip to tamp down on the bleeding, hoping that if I apply enough pressure, it’ll stop.
“Argh,” Pa moans pitifully as I push the fabric into the wound.
It strikes me that I have no fucking clue what I’m doing right now.
“I have to call 112,” I mutter. “You need an ambulance.”