𝘿𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙡 𝙄𝙣𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝘿𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙩 - 𝙔𝘼𝙉𝘿𝙀𝙍𝙀 𝙓 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙍 ✓

16.

━━━

I didn't initially plan to stay for the night shift, but I caved in. I don't know whether my choice was a good thing or not, oblivious, or just plain selfish. But it was either I stay back, or nurse Bridget. 

Stanislav's large, blood-stained hand sits over mine, as I seam the stitching needle through his skin with careful concentration. We sit silently in the medical station, empty, under the dim hospital-shade light. I gently hold his hand within mine, leaning over the doctor's desk I'm sitting in. Gloves envelop my hands, and blood-coated tissues are scattered over the desk itself. 

Small, yet somewhat deep cuts and grazes line over his arms and hands, a visual representation of how hard the other patient fought against Stanislav. And to think, I'm holding one of these hands which caused such unremorseful pain. Stitching it, tending to it. It pits me with guilt, I know this was something I will carry for a long, long time. I feel worse than anyone can imagine, but the way his hand sits within mine, how his attention is on me. 

It's the way he's watching me, seeing through me, the sound of his other hands nails tapping rhythmically against the table as I stitch the wounds. It must be so different to be in his shoes, to just know who I am, how I am feeling, to see everything about me so easily. Yet to me, I have the mystery to solve, the blankness that fronts his face and the secrets he keeps. I hate this moment, but I know how close I'll keep it later on. 

"...Why did you hurt him...?" I ask barely beyond a whisper, softly and smoothly with my gaze fixated on my medical work. He doesn't make any physical or emotional movement, the mixed scent of strong, metallic blood and Stanislav's clean and spicy scent washing over me in an odd concoction. 

"I wanted to." 

He continues to stare, and my eye's lock on his for split moment before averting back to stitching. His words linger, I don't want to assume there is anything else behind it, quite often you will find that the bare answer is the only answer, nothing more. But I'm curious. "Why did you want to?" I continue, and his answer's become a little more solid and less ridged. 

"When someone makes you mad, don't you want to hurt them?" He questions, and I let out a little chuckle. "I mean, I suppose, but I wouldn't go through with it," I joke, running the thin needle through the skin gently as the silence follows. He's pondering what to say, it's easy to tell now. He's calculating his next words meticulously. 

"Maybe you should," He comments with emotional ease, yet I can't tell if he is being serious or not. I meet his eyes with joking disbelief. "You think? why?" I laugh, and he sigh's quietly. "Well, I know that there are people in your life that may need it." He states firmly, his eye's darting to my naked ring finger once more. I shake my head with a huff. "I... I don't think so. Yes, I really, really want to at times, but I know, that deep down, I just can't do that. I'm not going to stoop to that level." I explain and he nods slowly as he listens intently. 

I tie the last stitch and wipe the surrounding area, bandaging each stitch securely. With an alcohol wipe I slowly clean the overall area once more, then begin to wipe the left-over blood from his wrists and arms. I watch as the cloth catches and cleans the old blood from his skin, his eye's very carefully watching the cloth cleanse his skin. I'm smooth and slow, careful over the bandaged stitches.

The clock overhanging the wall besides us clicks ever so quietly, but just loud enough to fill the passing silence. I can hear the soft nights rain begin to trickle against the roofs, its growth forming and soon loud enough to entertain the atmosphere quite peacefully. I want to take my time while I can, I want to keep doing this until I can't. 

The rag is soon almost completely coated in the old blood, and the blood is completely cleaned. But I'm still wiping the skin of his arms and hands, my fingers moving over his palm and slender fingers carefully, cleaning every single area. 

"...Do you want to know something, nurse?" 

His smooth yet low voice breaks my movements, and my gaze lifts to meet his. "Sure..." I nod cautiously, almost feeling like his words could cause life or death. I watch in nervous anticipation as he thinks, dazed in his own thoughts before slowly parting his lips to speak. 

"Do you know why I didn't stop beating that man until he bled?" He questions with alarming casualness, my chest racing intensely. It really is true, he feels nothing for what he did, he doesn't care. He really doesn't. It's scary, the lack of remorse that drips from his voice and how unfazed he is. The rain continues to race against the windows and roof, the clock's ticking filling my mind. I shake my head.

"Because,

I needed something to remind me of you."

Oh.

God.

My face burns and boils, I can't take my eyes off of this man. He knows this. 

I shift a little as I feel his arm lift, his hand growing eerily closer to my face. I can't move, my heart can't handle this. I feel like I'm dying. 

His palm connects to the side of my jaw in completeness, the warmth of his hand bursting through my face. His thumb gently moves and begins to graze over my lips, and I can feel my lipstick shifting with the touch of his thumb against it. Anxiety punctures my chest as it races through my veins, every part of my body clamping and locking with tenseness. His ice-blue iris's follow the way his thumb grazes my lips, the deep maroon of my lipstick painting his thumb. 

"You."

His thumb slowly, gently grazes from my lips, lightly smearing to the side with his thumb. "I needed to see the same colour. 

That colour."

He continues, his gaze growing more and more intense by the second, my eyes refusing to avert. 

"And when I saw it,

I couldn't stop."

His voice writhes through my body and runs up my spine, the palms of my hands layered with sweat as I grip my uniform's skirt. My hands won't stop trembling. I can't think, I can't speak, this is so much, everything.

"I didn't want to stop. Because I when I saw the blood, 

I saw you."

I'm going to die. I feel like I'm going to die. I've never had a man look at me in the way he is. My eye's fall over his features, how close he is to me. His jaw is so sharp, his cheekbones are defined in the most meticulous way. His eyes are angular and deep, dark and his lashes overlay them. His lips are just as angular and slightly downturned, with the face of a permanently frustrated man. I can feel his hand move over my jaw and cheek, the warmth and careful touch wander over my skin. It's the most addictive sensation, yet so, so, dangerous. 

If I could feel his touch in such a way for the rest of my life, I would.

━━━