A Deadly Winter Retreat

|9|

THE SIGHT BEFORE me caused my heart to pound against my ribcage, and I nearly lost my breath.

"Oh my gosh!" I cupped my hand over my mouth. "What happened, Troy?" I exclaimed, dropping to my knees beside him. My eyes widen as they land on the splotches of blood staining his t-shirt. I leaned in for a closer look, my gaze tracing the path of red specks down to his jeans, which were flecked with tiny dots of crimson.

He grimaces in agony, squeezing his eyes shut, and explains, "I tripped over the dresser, and the television fell on top of me. Some shards of glass landed on me, a few even embedded themselves in my abdomen." He bites his lower lip, struggling to contain the pain.

Relief washes over me. "I thought someone had broken in and stabbed you!"

He managed a weak smile amidst the discomfort. "No, it was my own clumsiness. I tripped."

Clutching his abdomen with his muscular hand, his veins stood out as a testament to his suffering, he winced.

"Let me check the depth of the cut," I demand, gripping the hem of his t-shirt. The cotton fabric folds between my fingers. "As I lift your shirt, you might a little pain." I warned.

Troy nodded, his face contorted.

"Okay, on the count of three," I said, preparing to lift the fabric. "One... two... three!"

Swiftly, I raise the shirt, aiming to minimize his discomfort. Yet, a loud moan escapes his lips as pain surges through him.

"I'm sorry, honey," I murmured, continuing to lift the t-shirt, exposing his abdomen. The fabric adheres to his skin, and remnants of dried blood created a macabre mosaic. My fingers brush against his flesh, inadvertently grazing a deeply embedded piece of glass, half of it protruding from his stomach.

"Oh my gosh, Troy! This looks serious," I exclaimed, gently pulling his shirt back down. "I'm going to call an ambulance."

I hurried out of the room and down the hallway, my heart racing. Reaching the coffee table, I leaned down and picked up my cell phone, my fingers trembling as I quickly dialed 9-1-1. The phone rang and each ring felt like an eternity.

As I anxiously waited for an operator to answer, I propped up the phone between my shoulder and my jaw. I dashed to the hallway closet, sliding open the door. Standing on my tippy-toes, I retrieved a large towel from the top shelf.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?" a woman's voice came through, stoic and professional.

"My boyfriend tripped, and the TV fell on him," I began, brushing a cascade of curls away from my face. "There are pieces of glass sticking out of his abdomen, and he's in excruciating pain." I respond with urgency.

"How did he trip, miss?" the operator inquired, her tone focused.

"He tripped over the leg of our dresser drawer," I explained, my voice tense with worry. I returned to the room where Troy lay and gently placed the towel over the wounded area of his abdomen.

"Is he able to communicate?" the operator asked, the faint sound of her fingers typing on the keyboard echoing through the phone.

"Yes," I replied urgently, my patience wearing thin. I just wanted help to arrive quickly.

"Why hasn't an ambulance been dispatched yet?" I burst out, frustration seeping into my words.

"The ambulance is already on its way," she reassured me.

My breathing returned to normal, and the tension I carried in my body slowly dissipated as I calmed down once I learned the medics were on their way, but they couldn't get here soon enough.