Peppermint And Gunpowder

Chapter Seven: Blood

The room is dark. I lay on a mattress on the floor, eyes closed. Silence and darkness engulfs me.

I am nearly asleep when a hacking cough ruptures the silence. The cough comes again and again, shattered breathing follows.

Turning toward the bed beside me, I see Gracie curled and sound asleep. Three figures masked by sheets and darkness lay in a lie--Jet, Kobra, and Ghoul sleep in a row, each closer to the wall than the next.

All sleep quite, unmoving.

Sure the coughing comes from none of them, I try to see through the dark to see Poison.

His mattress is empty, the bedding is stirred. Coughing comes again, but this time, it's muffled--as if the person is trying to hide their uneven breathing and hacking cough.

Slipping out of the threadbare blankets as quiet as I can, I tiptoe across the wooden floor, soles of my feet sticking to the floorboards.

I knock on the door beside the storage room--the bathroom door. No response. I knock again.

"Poison?" I whisper. "Poison, are you in there."

He coughs again, and says shakily: "Go away."

"You're sick." I say. "Open the door. Please."

"No," His voice is raspy.

"Why not?" I press my ear to the door, and hear him breathing heavily. I shift my weight and wonder if he'll respond again. "Poison, if you don't open this door, I will break it down."

"Please. Just go away." He whispers heavily.

"No." I knock again. "Open the door."

The lock clicks, but the door doesn't open. I turn the knob, and see him sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his head in his hands. I close the door behind me

"Poison?" I look down at him, and sit beside him. "What's going on? What happened?"

He looks up, and when he does, I feel my heart drop.

Tears well in his eyes, blood dribbles down his chin. He coughs again, blood flings onto his fingers from where he tried to cover his mouth. A tear falls down his cheek, and he looks away, as if he was ashamed to hold my gaze.

He wipes the blood off his chin, doing nothing but smear it across his face and pull some off onto his fingers.

He is underdressed; an old t-shirt and shorts. Bloodstained hands grip the porcelain bathtub, tears drip down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry..." He murmurs, voice and breath jumping. He fights off tears.

"No, no. Please." I turn his face toward me, the blood and tears catching light from the overhead lamp, reflecting in the mirror above the sink. "Don't be sorry. Please. Don't be sorry."

He says nothing, just looks away. I stand, pulling the cabinet doors open and getting an old washcloth out. I run it under warm water, dipping soap onto the rough material. I squeeze the extra water and fold it into a square.

"Look at me," I whisper, holding his chin gently, tilting his tanned, bloodstained face. "Look at me."

I gently begin to wipe the blood off his face, yet it dribbles down his chin still. I hum softly, an attempt to soothe the ailing man.

Well, it rains and it pours, when you're out on your own. If I crash on the couch, can I sleep in my clothes? 'Cause I spent the night dancing, I'm drunk, I suppose. If it looks like I'm laughing, I'm really just asking to leave.