The Lady Next Door by S. E. Green

The Lady Next Door by S. E. Green

Author:S. E. Green [Green, S. E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: SEG Publishing
Published: 2022-09-30T16:00:00+00:00


19

Sunday 9:15 p.m.

Blood oozes from my left thigh. For a moment, I don’t move. I stay very still. Like I’m afraid if I do move, Martha will come back in.

But I hear only the sound of the running toilet in my bathroom.

After another few beats, I take in a deep breath. Fire licks across my leg. I force myself to get up. The muscles in my left thigh pulse as I slide that leg across the mattress. Pain like I’ve never felt contracts through every nerve and fiber—from my toes up to my hips. With a hiss, I stop moving. My body sags back against the pillows. I suck in a breath and then blow it out hard.

Okay, Jessica, you can do this.

I can either fling myself out of this bed like ripping a Band-Aid, or I can slow-and-steady-wins-the-race.

I opt for the latter.

Using my right arm and leg for momentum, I roll, landing on my stomach first and then sliding to the floor. My good leg touches down. I put all my weight on it as I hold onto the edge of the bed. The room spins. I squeeze my eyes shut. My fingers dig into the mattress. I breathe.

When I feel more centered, I open my eyes. My gaze lands on the bloody mattress with a singed hole, which means that’s hopefully where the bullet is and not in my thigh.

Quickly, I check, burrowing into the singed area with my index finger. Sure enough, I bring out the bullet. Thank God.

Now to see how bad it is.

Putting all my weight on the mattress, I hop on my good leg. Pain rockets through my left thigh. I grit my teeth, and I hop again. One more hop and I’m to the end of the bed.

I allow myself a second or two to once again breathe. I need something to hold onto, but between here and the bathroom stretches five feet of open space. I’m just going to do it, and if I crash, I crash.

It’s the only option.

I hop.

I breathe.

I hop again.

I wince.

One more, and I wobble.

My arms come out, floundering for anything to hold onto. But I lose my balance and crash to the floor, right on top of my bad leg.

I cry out. Excruciating pain clenches my thigh. Nausea rolls through my stomach and straight into my throat. I dry heave.

There’s no way I’m getting up and off this floor.

Slowly, I crawl, pulling myself toward the bathroom. Through the door, I go, over to the toilet. I pray I don’t yank it off the wall as I wrench myself up to sit. Above the toilet is a cabinet fastened to the wall with a rudimentary first aid kit inside. I fling the cabinet door open. The momentum sends several items crashing down—extra soap, tampons, shampoo, toothpaste, and the kit.

The bathroom spins. I close my eyes. I inhale. I exhale.

I have nothing to cut my leggings with. Instead, I wedge my fingers into the hole already created by the bullet.



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