"Oh come on, Penny. You can save him, right?"
"I'm not sure," I reply to Isobel, examining the man in uniform on the floor.
"See, why would we save him anyway? Isn't he the one who killed my mom?"
"No, genius. Look at him." Isobel keeps staring down at the man, who looks very young. He's quite mascular, enough to be one of 'them'.
"He didn't kill your mother. His blood is fresh, and he's not dead yet."
"No no, I know," I unbutton the silver buttons of his uniform, pulling it open to reveal his blood-smeared chest, fresh blood oozing out of the recent wound caused by what had seemed to be a piece of glass.
"But he's one of them. What would dad think?"
"Really, Penny? You really think you could leave him to die when you have the skills to save him?"
I continue staring down at the man, biting my lip. I had only been practicing medicine for so long, and I might end up killing him instead of saving him. But if I don't try I might as well let him die, right?
I sigh heavily, glancing up at Isobel.
"Okay, fine. Run back to the Crystal and get me as much alcohol as you can, along with my favourite kit. You know where it is, right?"
"Oh, how could I not," she giggles, and holding up the hem of her long dress, she steps over the mud to run back to the patch.
I return my gaze to the man, a thousand thoughts running through my head.
Who was he? Would I be able to save him? What was his name? Was he one of them? Would he tell us about them? Does he know that his kind has killed my mother?
His brownish eyelids flutter slightly, as his expression softens. The scar that slashes his left eyebrow in two suddenly seems invisible, giving his face an innocent vibe. I gulp as press my hand on the wound. I'll save him. I haven't ever saved anyone before. I still had years before I was an actual medic like my father. But I will save this man.
As the warm blood touches my palm, that horrible night flashes through my mind. I feel tears gathering in my eyes. It was this man. It were his kind that destroyed so many people.
But he was so young. Barely a few years older than myself. How could anyone like this man be the cause of my nightmares? Of my fear of love? Trust issues? Phobia of the dark and loud noises? How could this man be the cause of how I was tramautized as a child? He couldn't be.
His dark lashes reminds me of the leaves near the end of autumn. Like the same colour of my wooden pencil when I feel like writing something that sounds so brilliant in my head every once in a while. His skin is of a fine silk, although little hair stubbles his chin and cheeks, it still looks perfect in every way. How could such imperfect things be seen as perfect? How could I sit here and think what could lay behind those lids when he opened his eyes? Would there be the ocean? Or would there be grass?
I run my fingers along his forehead to his temple, gingerly pushing back every strand of hair that was sticking to his skin. My fingertips leave a bloody trace that rudely interrupts the silky material of his skin, yet it doesn't look ruined. No matter what I do to this man, he'll always be beautiful.
God makes beautiful things.
I am still lost, my heartbeat slowed, my fingertips frozen on his skin and my eyes fixed on his closed lids. So calm that I don't have a quick reaction to him suddenly opening his eyes, grabbing my wrist with such force that it could shatter every bone in my body. Startled, I can feel my heart beat faster, but the only thought that runs through my mind is that his eyes are not the oceanic blue, nor a green jungle. His eyes are the colour of the sky at sunset. Like when you look at the mountains and watch the sun go down behind them, as if hiding from every sin it sees on earth daily. His eyes are the lightest shade of orangish brown. His eyes are the only thing that keep me calm, even though his fingers are digging into my easily tearable, pale skin, holding it firmly as he pulls me down, pinning me beside him. I can see him flinch as he forces himself up on his elbow, hovering over me as he pins down my hands. I don't bother struggle. If this is death, I'd gladly take it.
