{tribulation (noun) – a cause of great trouble or suffering; state of distress.}
y/n's pov:
"Hold still you idiot." I hissed, grabbing Tom's arm to get a closer look.
The boy made a guttural sound, before swearing under his breath and allowing me to examine the wound. He squirmed, "Can you be more gentle? It feels like you're trying to saw my arm off."
I rolled my eyes, reaching over to the table to find some more bandages. "Oh, be quiet you big baby. It will be over before you know it."
Thomas didn't seem convinced. He winced again in protest of what I was doing, but nevertheless didn't pull away. He huffed. "I don't see why you have to be the one to do this, there are much softer and warmer people around here who could be treating me instead."
I grew tired of the boy's complaints. He had been here for almost an hour, psyching himself up for what he can only envision as the worst amount of pain possible.
Does he not remember being shot?
"Ouch! Y/n! What was that?!" Thomas shrieked from his seat, not realising that I had only just added the disinfectant and nothing else.
I pulled his arm closer to me. "That was only the spray – I haven't even started yet."
He seemed taken a back and frustrated but still allowed me to continue.
I wasn't remotely looking forward to it either, but I knew it had to be done, and if it were to help Thomas, I guess I would do it.
"Right, are you ready?" I asked, gripping the boy's arm in my hand, waiting for his probably very unenthusiastic response.
He sighed. "Yes, fine, just- please be nice."
I didn't even try to feign offence. "I'm always nice."
For the first couple of minutes, the boy would shriek and squirm – try to move his arm out of my reach or find a comfortable place for him to sit where it would hurt less. Of course, that does not exist.
But after about ten minutes of stitching into the boy's skin, sewing together his wound so it wouldn't get larger or even infected, I had finally finished, and Thomas seemed overjoyed.
"Thank fuck that's over." He exclaimed, gently moving his arm. It didn't seem to be too painful, as I watched the boy tentatively poke at his newly sewn together arm.
I felt like being sarcastic. "You're welcome."
The boy laughed. "Oh, yeah, sorry, I forgot to thank you for putting literal stitches into my arm. I swear the next time I will be much more enthusiastic."
Over the last couple of months Thomas had been a massive dick head.
It was tricky to pinpoint the reasoning behind this – even Brenda seemed confused as to why he was prone to losing his temper, and to why his new favourite mode of communication had transformed into sarcasm.
To her, it didn't make much sense. She struggled to comprehend why someone would result to anger so quickly during a conversation, or why they would find the smallest things to become overwhelming furious over.
Granted, it became quite obvious the strain it was taking on their relationship.
"Shut up, Tom. I am not in the mood for you or your terrible sarcasm." I hissed at the boy, making his eyebrows crease and his mouth frown.
"My terrible sarcasm? I had to endure all of your quick wit and sarcastic comments when we first met, why can't you extend the same curtesy?"
I flung around to face the boy, laughing from disbelief. "Are you seriously upset about a few comments I made four years ago?" I laughed again, "That's fine, Tom, you can hold all the grudges you want – just do me a favour and go see your girlfriend. She was close to losing it when you were stabbed earlier, it would probably be nice to let her know you're not dead."
