The Broken City by Mary E. Twomey

Author:Mary E. Twomey [Twomey, Mary E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mary E. Twomey, LLC

12

Blood, Tears and Vomit

Colette

Vomit rises in my throat as I reach for the thread that I procured earlier, which is most certainly the wrong type.

“My bag,” Declan reminds me.

Thank goodness. I fish around in my brother’s medic bag until I find a sealed pack that looks like the needle and thread I will be needing.

Because I am going to have to…

No. I can’t think about it yet. Not until the moment I absolutely have to.

After I tear open the package, I manage to thread the needle after two misses.

Rome is breathing through his teeth as he crawls slowly across my floor, his movements rigid. I screech my horror when I notice a trail of clearly fresh blood streaking across the wood behind him. “You’re injured, you stubborn ass! I knew you were hurt!”

Rome doesn’t look up, but keeps his gaze focused on the cup beside my brother on the floor. “It’s just a scratch.” Then to my brother, he says, “Orlando needs that blood, Declan.”

“If I pick it up, I’m going to drop it,” Declan admits.

Rome swears and then tips the cup to his lips. “Just a sip, so I can get it to him.”

I whirl around the second Rome finishes his gulp. “I can do it. You sit down and think about how ridiculous your pride is. Sit right there and don’t move. I can barely stand to look at you; I’m so mad.”

Rome chuckles, which I’ll admit, isn’t a sound I expected I might hear in this dire situation. “Worry about Orlando. Stitch his lung shut first. Once he can breathe, then feed him some blood. After that, sew up the surface wound.”

I’m struggling to put his directions in order, so great is my fear that I will be the cause of Orlando’s death because I am lousy with a needle and thread. The scream that ekes out behind closed lips announces my terror to the room as I reach into Orlando’s open chest. I try not to vomit into his chest cavity as I fish around for the hole in his lung.

Orlando’s eyelids open in terror mixed with agony, no doubt not loving the sensation of a finger massaging his vital organ. He gasps for breath, gripping my free arm as best he can with slippery and rigid fingers. He wheezes while he tries to work out a protest.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I ramble as I poke around for far too long. Tears cloud my vision, but that’s the least of my worries. I cannot find the tear because everything is slimy and scary, and I have zero medical training for such things.

Tears slip down my cheeks and splash into Orlando’s open wound, making the whole thing even more sloppy and chaotic.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I am inches away from barfing my morning tea all over him, which I’m guessing isn’t something a person prefers.

Rome is trying to talk me through it, but I can’t hear him over my sobbing, which has now become audible.

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