Destination 1974

Chapter 31

| Myrmidon; a person who executes without question or scruple a master's commands. |

~***~

"Ouch!"

"Hold still."

I roll my eyes and puff my hair out of my face with a pout. Clyde eases forward again and dabs my face with the cloth drenched in whiskey. I wince at the burning sensation, constantly being reminded of what happened a few hours ago until he stops. He presses the cloth against the bottle while flicking his cigarette to the other corner of his lips in concentration. Clyde tilts the bottle ninety degrees for a few moments, watching the liquid glug and swoosh in the glass. He pulls it away to take a long swig and then wiggles it in front of me. I lift my eyebrow at him after eyeing the bottle for a moment.

"You look like you need it," he says in a husky voice. His voice seems rougher than usual; it's probably from all the smoke we just inhaled at that camp. I wonder if his voice was always rough like rolling gravel, or if his voice became that way from all the cigarettes he's smoked in his life. I grab the bottle and chug a good amount of whiskey, but I instantly regret it as the liquid burns out my insides.

"Eugh, it's like drinking gasoline, and lighting a match down my throat," I growl with a surprisingly husky tone. I think it's from the aftermath of the alcohol mixed with the black smoke in my lungs from that explosion. I can't seem to remember what happened after Clarence beat me half to death in that painfully white room. How did I get outside? Was I always unconscious, and Clyde carried me out of there? I'm too afraid to ask, and Clyde seems like he doesn't want to think about what happened either. I take another swig of the whiskey, realizing that the pain it causes erases the bad memories for a brief moment.

"Ahhg!" I flinch away as the cloth is pressed against my bullet wound like a hot iron. He leans closer, adjusting his head position to allow the dull restroom light to properly reveal my wound. He moves my arm, and I groan as it throbs with every subtle twist of his hand. Clyde places the cigarette on the corner of the sink and leans closer to my arm.

"Looks like the bullet cut clean through," his eyes flicker up to meet mine, "you're one lucky sonofab!tch."

"I don't feel so lucky," I groan before taking a sip of the whiskey still in my tight grasp. I lean over and pick up his cigarette to take a long needed drag. Clyde quickly pulls it out of my lips, holding it away from me like a child obsessing over their favourite toy. He furrows his brow line before sticking the nicotine stick between his dry lips again.

"I don't have to pull anything out of your arm," he dabs the cloth on my wound again, and I flinch only a little as I slowly exhale my puff, "and seeing that you're already in a lot of pain, you're damn lucky I don't need to pull anything out of your open wound. We can just patch it up."

"Good riddance," I take another sip of whiskey, and he pulls it out of my hand to add more to the cloth. All the pain in my upper body seemed to mask the growing pain in my abdomen, and the squishy uncomfortable feeling down there makes me groan. "Uh, Clyde?" he looks up at me from my wound, "would you mind doin' me a quick favour?"

Clyde raises his eyebrow with an offended look smugly plastered across his features. That face screams, 'aren't I doin' you a favour right now, you piece of sh!t?' I roll my eyes at his silent remark, "it's, uh, kinda awkward, but..." I sigh, not knowing how to say it. The knot in my gut isn't just from nervous embarrassment. I lean in and whisper in his ear, and his face relaxes as I back away slowly.

"Oh..." he stands up and places the bottle down, "okay... uhh, we need more whiskey anyways," he notes as he wiggles the bottle from its neck. He grabs the first aid kit as I stand up and straighten up myself in the mirror before waving him off.