Pierce and Scarlett are two unique fragments who cross pathways in a low-end motel. He is running away from his haunted past, while she is trying to build a future from broken pieces. As the pair collides in a series of trying events, they must figu...
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12 | Stains
Scarlett's Point of View
I love to let my mind wander inside of books, especially ones that take me from this world. When I'm inside the world of a book, I can become someone else, even for a trickle of a moment. For once, my brain stops and I just read. Sometimes it's nice to just read.
My heart rattles within my chest as the door to the lobby bursts open. A tall dark figure stumbles through the opening and lands on the ground. I peek over the desk and notice a bruised and battered Ricky sprawled across the ground.
"Shit, Ricky, what the hell happened to you?" I throw the book onto the desk and run around to meet him.
Ricky clutches his bleeding leg as he hisses something inaudible through his teeth.
"The job went south," he replies. "Some bastard slashed my leg during the fight."
His bloody hands are clutched around the top of his thigh in an effort to stop the bleeding. All the while drips of his warm blood splatter onto the carpet creating a new stain among the other ones.
"Can I see your leg?" I inquire.
"I feel woozy if I take the pressure off," he replies.
"Does that mean you need stitches?" I ask.
"I don't know." He huffs. "I didn't get a good look at it."
"Then how can I help you if I can't see your leg?" I slam my hand into his shoulder.
"You can't beat an injured man, Scarlett," he mutters.
"Then move your hand so I can see what I'm working with." I frown.
Ricky's pout falls from his lip. He hesitantly moves his hands to allow me a small glance.
"So?" he prompts. "Will I need a staple gun?"
"No." I shake my head. "You're going to need stitches."
"Fuck." He groans.
I remove his bag from Ricky's shoulder and toss it behind the desk. Then, I hook his arm over my shoulder and tug his body upwards. Ricky stumbles to his feet and we wobbly begin our journey to the kitchen.
His weight dawns heavily on my shoulder, but I keep pushing. One more step. I put one foot in front of the other because dropping Ricky on the floor isn't an option.
When we make it into the kitchen, Ricky grabs the metal bench and hauls himself onto the clean space. He stretches out but remains clutching his leg.
"I'll just." I huff. "Let me get something for your bruised eye."
I take a deep breath and trug towards the freezer. Yanking on the door, I find a packet of hamburger meat shoved behind a box of steak pies. I toss the bundle in his direction, then return to my own task.
