One Life To Live

My usual Wednesday night consisted of the latest episode of House M.D., my fuzzy slippers, sweatpants, and now, a huge 4 page review on all different types of clinical medication used for treating mental illnesses. Joy. I was 60 questions deep – about the beginning of the second page, when there was a series of quick, loud knocks on the dorm room door. Sighing, I jumped out of my bed, and meandered around the corner toward the entryway. It must be Freddie with that movie I’d rented from Blockbuster a week ago, I mused. I’d said he could have it for a few days and watch it with his buddies, but now I have to deal with late fees. He argued and said he’d pay them, but I wasn’t going to be that bitchy about it. It was Freddie, after all. He meant no harm – he was just brain-dead half the time.

I gripped the knob, turning it while I threw open the door, waiting to unload on the lazy fool. I landed my gaze on the mystery guest, and I swear I almost had a cardiac arrest, just then.

Lance was leaning against the right side of the door frame, bare-chested for God’s sake, his hair disheveled, his face pale (well…pale for an Italian with olive skin), and a huge white bandage wrapped around his left tricep, soaked in blood. His eyes were wild, his breathing quick and short while he began to say, “Mel…I need your help.”

“W-what happened?” I spluttered, bewildered, even though I could give a pretty good guess.

“My arm,” he paused briefly to take a breath, “is sliced open.”

“Jesus Christ.” I mumbled, getting a good look at him, and then the obvious came to me. “Why aren’t you at the emergency room?!” My voice rose indignantly.

“And tell them what, Mel? That I got into a knife fight? They’d start investigating, and-” He shook his head, “no. You’re the only one I could think to go to.”

“So, you dying from blood loss isn’t worth explaining the situation?” I argued.

He sighed, “Please, Mel. Just help me.” His eyes begged me.

I thought about rejecting him for a second, not sure if I’d be capable of it, but I inevitably caved. I sighed, “Fine. Come with me.”

I led him into the kitchen, and sat him down on the nearest chair. He had a black sweater in his right hand that he tossed over the top of my comforter. I tried not to stare at his chest – gleaming with sweat and large, pulsing muscles – but it was hard not to, to be honest. I shook myself mentally, and thought, Boy – he was lucky I actually had the supplies to fix this. I went into the cupboard, and took out my first aid kit, anesthetics, shears, sewing needles, and anything else I thought was appropriate. I dumped them all up on the small, cute dining room table I had.

The first thing I got to work on was that poorly wrapped, disgusting shirt/band-aid of his. I peeled it off, and stared momentarily at the deep, bloody gash that was spewing body fluids down the length of his arm. I quickly soaked up the fresh blood with a soothing gauze sheet that wouldn’t sting, and took my string from my bag and tied it chokingly tight around his deltoids right at his shoulder.

“What’s that for?” He asked, examining the tie around his arm curiously.

“To cut off your circulation so more blood cannot flow through the open wound.” I explained as I reached for the ammonia and hydrogen peroxide I had stuffed in the back of my bag.

I gazed up at him, “This is going to sting.” I warned.

His face was smooth, and stoic. “Get it over with,” he muttered.

So I did. As I applied the ammonia (get the worst over with first, of course), he yelled, his face pulling together in pain, his teeth were clenched.

I eyed him and eased up on the ammonia, and dripped hydrogen peroxide onto the edges of the wound. His forehead creased together, but not as bad this time. Now I added the goopy antiseptic that resembled Neosporin onto his wound to coagulate his blood. I grabbed a long strip of gauze and cut it off with my shears. I wrapped it around the cut and pinned it tight with a golden clip.

I sighed, relieved the worst was over with. “And now we wait,” I declared.

His eyes flicked up to mine. His eyelashes hovered over his intense gaze, and my heart did an irregular ga-lump without my consent. I knew it wasn’t over him – but at least I was trying. “For what?” He inquired.

“We need to sew that cut up,” I surveyed his arm once more. “About a half hour though – need to wait until the wound clots.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

“Stay still,” I ordered. I rose from my seat trying to make sense of all the chaos lying across the table. I threw most of it away, and swiveled the caps on the ammonia and peroxide. While I tucked the supplies back into their place, I readied the sewing string and needles. I got the Nova cane out, knowing if he tensed up about the ammonia, he couldn’t sit through me threading needles in and out through his bare skin.

I dashed out of the room, remembering I still had my TV on in my room. I returned to my separate bedroom to turn off House, and gather my cluster of books. As I exited my room, I flicked on the TV as the last fifteen minutes of House was wrapping up. I plopped my books on the counter top, and flipped to where I had left off. Lance peered over at me from where he was still seated at the kitchen table. “Homework?”

“Yes,” I sighed, flipping pages in my med book absentmindedly.

He didn’t say much after that, and I got the awkward feeling that I was silently pushing him away by my nonverbal actions. I didn’t feel comfortable by him being here – mostly because I was trying to get over him, and so far…that goal hasn’t been met. But the last thing I wanted to be was bitchy, and show him the door. He rubbed his chin with his right hand which was coarse with stubble.

“Thank you, Mel.” He finally said, in an ominous tone as he tested the waters.

I nodded, and gave him a brief smile. “You’re welcome.” There. That wasn’t bitchy. Lance nodded slowly at my response, and it seemed like he wanted to say something else, but decided otherwise. I gazed up suddenly as Dr. House came to the realization of a medical discovery – from a idle sentence Cuddy said to him in disdain. My eyes got distracted to the television as House’s prediction was proven correct as the patient’s jaundice began to subside. He made a sarcastic remark to Foreman, and I had to smile.

“House?” Lance broke into a smile, seeing my reaction.

I gave him a smile back, feeling generous at the moment. “My favorite show,” I commented, smiling, as I highlighted a key word in my textbook. Just then I sighed heavily as I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. This is wrong, Mel. I shouldn’t expose myself to being with him like this. Smiling and talking about TV shows? He’s here to get bandaged up, and that’s it – no flirting. It was only going to be worse off for me to cope with tomorrow.

I frowned slightly at the realization, and as the clock neared 25 minutes, I removed myself from the counter, saying, “Let’s check on that wound.”