To Imagine...

Imagine Four: Skylar

"You're fucking with me, you're absolutely fucking with me..." I stumbled over myself, a roll of bandages for sprained ankles trailing from my hands. I collapsed to the floor in front of the boy--he was deathly pale. Or more like, he was deadly pale, because I was pretty sure he was dead. My greatest shock from everything that laid before me was that I had actually managed to get this man to my room. My muscle-fat ratio tipped one-hundred to zero, in favor of fat. Not to say that I'm not skinny, but muscle is a thing that I am completely devoid of.

The boy was very short, probably five foot sharp, and skinny enough himself to fit the height. He was tiny. That was probably the only thing that saved me from dropping or having to drag him.

I lifted up his left arm that was bleeding in to the many towels that I had laid under him and wrapped the bandage around it, over and over again. It was bleeding through even as I went, which I figured was not a good sign. This boy had enough blood to fill an ocean. Plus, I'm pretty sure you don't wrap bleeding wounds in ankle bandages.

I took the metal clasp and stuck it in to the material, finally securing the bandage to his arm. It would have to do.

What do I do now... I thought, staring helplessly at the boy. Finally, after sixteen years of my life, a gorgeous man suddenly appears in my house, only to die on my carpet. This was beyond unfair.

Exasperated, I stared at his shoulder. I had never before seen a gunshot wound, but it was undeniably just that. I just needed to stop the bleeding... Oh. I could have hit myself in the head with a brick. After all the shows I've watched; Grimm, Law and Order, whatever... I had forgotten to tie off his arm before the point of injury.

Panicked again, with renewed energy, I threw my head around, searching for something to use-- a ribbon, string, wire, anything. Out of the tremendous amount of junk that resided in my room, not any of it could happen to be used as a tourniquet. I took a deep breath and looked down. My belt would do. I stripped it off and slid it on mercilessly tight, wrapping it a few times to buckle it on. It was a lot harder than I expected.

Once again, I stared helplessly at him. What should I do? Should I feed him water from a spoon?

I put my hand over his mouth and nose. No breathing. I felt everything drain from my face. This man couldn't actually die on my bedroom floor, that would...

Suck.

Wow, I am so self-serving.

I struggled to turn him over on his side and made a pained face when I saw again the handcuffs around his wrists, tearing through his skin. And all the blood that had run from his shoulder. Reaching for his right wrist, I pressed my fingers against it, searching for a pulse. I smiled wryly with a grimace.

Putting him back on his hands and pressing my fingers against his neck, tears sprung to my eyes. CPR. He needed CPR. That's what people do, right? I don't even know how long he's been out. I guess he made a noise when I dropped him on the floor.

I winced. I'd taken very good care of him. Maybe.

Shaking, I sat up on my knees, hands trembling as I held them above his chest. Could I actually do this? I suddenly found it hard to breathe. His life basically fell on my shoulders. Right? But I don't know CPR.

...No, actually... I had to get rid of my fear of failure. That's what people always tell me, because if I do nothing, I'll always fail. My failure as I did nothing would be worse than my failure if I had tried.

My hands still lay over his chest. Wow. I was actually touching a guy--a very attractive, very dead guy. Which was slightly irrelevant, but I had trouble shaking the feeling. I knew my face was redder than a tomato, but I pushed, once. How hard were you supposed to push? Fuck me for not taking lessons... I thought maybe I had heard before that people had bruised ribs from CPR, so I figured it was safe to say I was supposed to push pretty hard. Though, with my strength, I didn't think it was possible to bruise a man's ribs.