shortcake | liskook

19

“Hey, Lisa…” An echo of a deep voice tugs me from my dream of a family of fuzzy rabbit-cat hybrids. They’re trying to tell me something, something I can’t quite make out. 

I snuggle deeper into my pillow with a moan. 

“Shortcake, wake up.” 

“I need your help…” 

Help? I crack open my eyes and focus on Jungkook standing at the side of the bed, looking down at me. Something about the tightness around his eyes makes fire-station sirens blare in my mind. 

I push up on my elbows. “What’s wrong?” My words are slurred, and my voice is groggy, but my mind is alert. 

“Can you fix this?” He holds up his hand with his other hand wrapped around it, bright red blood dripping between his fingers down his arm. His white T-shirt is spattered with it. 

“Oh my god!” I screech, bolting upright, feeling my heart lodge in my throat. 

Clumsily swinging my legs off the bed, I scramble to stand on jello legs. I bump into Jungkook who takes a quick step back, giving me room. 

“What happened?!” My wild heartbeat shakes my voice. I grab his hand, turning it over, searching for the source of the blood. 

“If I let go, blood’ll go everywhere,” he states in a smooth voice. 

Maybe if I weren’t just jolted awake out of a dream about bunny-cats to see slaughterhouse Jungkook standing over me, I’d be calm too, but judging by the full-body tremble running through me, I’m the opposite of calm. 

I grip the front of Jungkook’s T-shirt and pull him out the bedroom door. “What happened?” I repeat, speed-walking him down the hall. 

“I cut myself.” 

No shit. 

“Yeah, I figured that.” I push open the bathroom door with my shoulder. “On what?” I’m proud my voice sounds steady because my insides are twisting and churning with worry. 

“Metal.” 

I let go of his shirt and grab a towel from the rack, setting it on the sink. “What kind of metal?” 

“Steel” 

“Rusty?” 

“Yeah.” 

I turn on the water while reminding myself to breathe, and reach under the sink to grab the emergency kit I bought off Amazon.

“How did this happen?” 

“Moving shit in the garage.” 

I set the kit on the counter and click it open. Then I take his large hand in both of mine, opening it under the faucet. There’s a deep, jagged laceration in the pad of his thumb, shallowing as it travels to the palm. I prod it open a bit to see what’s going on. It doesn’t look like he’s severed a tendon. 

“Can you flex your fingers for me, like you’re gripping a baseball?” I hold my breath until they move. Keeping it under the water, I continue to inspect the cut, watching his blood continue to pool. “You’re a bleeder.” 

“I know.” 

My eyes flick to his in the mirror, and I note the disaster that is my current state. A mop of hair that used to be on the top of my head is now slung over to the side and has doubled in size like a Gremlin. I’m also tented in one of Jungkook’s T-shirts, which I vaguely remember changing into last night when my comfy sweatshirt got uncomfortably hot. Jungkook’s huge shirt coupled with my huge side hair gives me a shrunken-head vibe. Which is not a good look. At all.