Support Group for Bleeding Children

[crabCaptain*]

((Continued from But You Won't See Me.))

Isabel waited until the girl was out of sight until she began to panic. Her leg was gushing, and the wound was wider than she had remembered it being about fifteen minutes ago.

She began to think ripping the arrow out like that hadn't been the best idea. The wound was now an ugly tear in her flesh, rather than the clean puncture it had probably been before. Muscle, tendon and artery were visible within the gushing crimson pool of the injury.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck." she gasped.

This was either going to kill her, or get her killed. There was no recovering from this fast enough to make survival possible when she was certain there were still people out to murder anyone in their way. She was going to walk with a limp probably, or get an infection, or something worse.

What was she thinking, ripping an arrow out of her leg? She remembered seeing something on TV about pushing the arrow all the way through the limb. The thought made her sicker than she already felt. Too little too late at this point to be thinking about it.

She pulled her bag off of her back and opened it, frantically digging for something that could help. Tucked neatly inside were some water bottles. Uncapping one, Isabel gingerly poured it over the tender flesh, cleaning the blood off the area. She hissed as the cold water met the hole in her leg. Taking a long gulp out of the bottle, she returned to her bag in search of her potential salvation.

The first aid kit was tucked all the way down in the bottom of the bag. She dumped the pack out and clawed at the clip holding the plastic box closed.

There was more than she expected inside. It looked practically fully stocked with whatever she needed. She could do this... right? What had her mom taught her about first aid?

Nothing. She hadn't taught her anything.

"Some nurse you are..." she hissed. She gave a small frown. She was probably never going to see her mom again and here she was cursing her. She had picked up a few things hearing mom talk about patients, but she hadn't actually bothered to learn basic first aid from the only nurse in the family.

She pulled out what she assumed were cotton dressings, antiseptic wipes, and a length of bandage.

This can't be so hard, right?

She peeled off the bloodied jeans and tore open one of the antiseptic wipes. Rubbing it around the wound, she blinked through tears when the sting of antiseptic combined itself with the sharp throbbing pain of the injury.

Pushing the dressing into the wound she held it down and wrapped the bandage around it to hold it in place. The gentle squeeze of the bandage relieved a tiny amount of pain. Grabbing the pair of scissors she cut the bandage to a reasonable length and examined her handiwork. It wasn't neat, but she hoped it would hold out. She silently prayed the kit was sterile.

She attempted standing.

It was a no go. Staying on all fours was her only option until it stopped hurting.

She crawled over to James' body and stared at his face. His eyes were opened in panic and his mouth was full of black blood. She brushed his hair out of his face and gave his cold hand a squeeze.

"I'm so sorry," she said, crawling past him, into the room he had been occupying not an hour prior to the whole fiasco. Climbing into the bed she let out a sob. Burying her face into the sheets where James had been, his warmth still in them, she hoped the remnants of his heat would make her feel something, but all she felt was the throb of the wound in her leg and her heart breaking into two.

[crabCaptain*]

Waking up from her rest, Isabel felt drunk and groggy. Her eyes were blurry and crusted with sleep. Rubbing them hard, her vision cleared. James still lay on the floor, eyes and mouth agape, still frozen in the moments of his last breath.

Letting out a half breath, she rotated herself around, until she sat at the edge of the bed, injured leg just hovering above the floor. Placing one hand on the nightstand for support, she lowered it to the ground and gasped. The pain in her thigh was a dull wave across her muscle. She may be able to walk, given some support but alone it was a bad idea.

The cold air in the room brushed across her bare legs. Her jeans sat at the edge of the bed, still wet with blood. Grabbing them, she hopped over to her bag and folded them up so the blood wouldn't touch anything, and pushed them to the bottom. Pulling the track pants out, she hoped they would fit her rather large waistline. Pulling them on, she stretched the elastic in the waist, almost to its limit and sighed. She shambled over the James' shotgun and examined it. She could put the safety on and use it like a cane. A very short cane. Or she could just find a long stick from a tree outside. That was a long shot and a half.

Slinging on James' bag, alone with a few blankets, she grabbed the gun, her sword and her own bag. Hobbling past James, she pushed his wide eyes closed and left him in the corridor.