Like Rapunzel, but Not Really ✔

Chapter 4

I blinked from my spot.

Oh.

Oh.

“HOLY MOTHER OF SIX!” I started to panic. There was blood everywhere.

I stumbled over to the battered and bruised-beyond-recognition guy who was lying down on the ground, but upon reaching him, I wasn’t exactly sure what to do afterwards. All past first aid lessons flew out of the window just like that. I stared at the crimson red blotch on the abdomen of the injured boy, wide eyed, mouth agape.

I was actually quite surprised I did not hurl at the sudden metallic stench attack that started stabbing my olfactory nerve.

Slowly, I knelt down. I was itching to do something but my hands were awkwardly hovering somewhere in between of touching him and not doing so lest my touch killed him somehow. I had trust issues with myself.

“You’re bleeding!” I stated, horrified. It was the best thing I could come up with at the time.

I was met with a deadpanned stare and an equal deadpanned tone. “Yes, I am aware of that,” no-face said slowly.

Relentless, my mouth-motor kept whirring away. “Well…,” I paused. Not sure where to head off from there. “Are you okay?” I asked unsurely before really processing what I had just said.

I twitched, not able to accept my stupidity. I needed to take social classes. I could perhaps fit something in Saturday night after yoga practice.

“Right,” I scratched the back of my head, laughing nervously when he raised an eyebrow, probably the only thing that was spared. It was that gruesome. “I should probably shut my mouth now,” I pointed to my face sheepishly. I had never been able to process much through my head when guys, minus Hunter, were involved.

Right. Dying guy at hand.

I needed to get something to lessen the amount of blood pouring out of him by the gallon. With my discarded sweater covered with a mysterious concoction of berries and mud, I really did not have anything appropriate to use at all.

“Think, brain, think,” I muttered quietly. “Come on...,” I fidgeted a bit before an idea dawned upon me.

“Listen... Mr... Err,” I looked at the guy who was clenching the dirt beside him like there was no tomorrow.

“Tristan,” he said curtly, although his breathing had turned a bit ragged. He was so obviously holding in the pain judging by his taut jaw and clenched eyes. I rolled my eyes. If it were me, I’d just roll around screaming profanities at the person who shot me. That or the person who found me. Or just screaming profanities, period. That was what incurred anyway last time.

“Right. Tristan,” I repeated his name. “How fond are you with your shirt?” I asked, holding the slightly dirty white shirt he was wearing.

Tristan looked at me quizzically, wondering just what on earth was I doing asking questions like that at four in the morning to wounded strangers.

“It’s alright,” he shrugged noncomitantly, voice quivering a little.

“Good,” I said before grabbing said shirt by the collar and ripping it apart. Buttons flew in all directions and I found my eyes staring at a very hideous mash of black and blue.

I looked at Tristan and his eyes had widened a fraction, surprise written all over his face. I reverted my gaze, unable to face him once mortification graced me with its presence. The atmosphere shifted into awkward overdrive.

What the hell am I doing? I held the white material shiftily. He could be a married, balding old man underneath a toupee for all I knew. Tristan was such an ancient name. I knew nobody my age who had that name. In fact, I knew nobody who had borned that name, save for my great, great grandfather. And died 80 years ago.