A Thorned Rose

Episode 2: Building Bridges

(Author's note: Written between *** indicates a flashback,  (Y/N) means self insert your own name or something)

The snow had stopped falling.

 The sun was breaking the horizon. Beams of light shined across your face through the bullet-ridden walls.

You looked up at the heavenly light. A redemption of sins washed across your face.

It had been a long night.

You had taken the woman into your room and laid her down on your bed. Her limp body was reasonably heavy.

A tourniquet had been applied on her shoulder, graciously by you.

She was out cold on your bed. Her soft breathing resonated through the room.

Laid on her back, her chest gently rising and falling as she rested from the battle.

***

Her body was heavy, at least sixty kilograms. Her blood dripped down onto your back from her mouth and shoulder. You walked into the carcass of your house, stepping over the two dead bodies from the close call you had earlier.

Ugh, they were beginning to smell.

As you walked into your room, you heard a 'clunk' and promptly got jolted back. 

You had hit her back on the doorframe whilst walking into your room.

Shit, she's not awake now, is she?

...zzzzzzzzz

Phew.

you sat her limp body on your bedside. Her limp torso keened forward towards your arms. Her hard, blue M88 helmet clunked into your arms.

Ah, that's right. She's from the enemy side. That light blue-colored helmet was an icon of fear for you only days earlier.

You peel off her helmet and pull her plate carrier up from her torso. Her arms floppily slipped through.

You noticed the growing pool of red on your bedsheets. You went to your kitchen and grabbed a rag.

Good enough for a tourniquet.

You came back to your room and sat down on the bed next to her. The cut was reasonably deep, about half an inch or so. The flesh beneath the skin was pulsing. Every heartbeat of hers pumped out a little more blood.

Can't quite tourney that.

You went back to the kitchen and got some rubbing alcohol.

Alright, I guess we have to do this, you thought to yourself. You lifted her arms up once more, this time dragging her sleeves. Her blood-stained combat shirt hugged her contours as it came off of her torso.

What was revealed beneath the shirt was quite a sight.

By your estimate, they were C-cups strapped tightly to her chest with a sports bra.
The blood kept flowing from her shoulder.

Right, that.

You doused the cut with rubbing alcohol. Seems like there's no shrapnel in the cut, which eliminated a step from the process.

You tightly wrapped the rag around her shoulder between the cut and her torso. Seems like it stopped the bleeding for now. You then took her shirt and tightly wrapped it over the cut.

It's gonna hurt like a bitch in the morning, but at least she's alive.

She laid on the bed peacefully, her chest rising and falling calmly as slow, deep breaths passed through her nose.