The Savior of the Font

Chapter 7

 Night comes and the rain pours on. Sam offers to let us stay the night but Faith insists that she wants to get back home. She doesn't say why, but I figure she doesn't want to risk more night terrors in his presence. Faith holds her box of stuff, covered by a trash bag, while I use the flashlight on my phone to help us race through the dark. We're both drenched in an instant, and it's still a long way to go. A flash of lightning illuminates the cornfields to our left, followed by a boom of thunder that echoes across the farm. By the time we make it to the house, I can barely keep a grip on my phone.

We burst through the door. Water drips from our clothes and soaks the carpet. We're both out of breath. "That was... fun," I say sarcastically between gasps. The house is pitch black. I don't even know if the lights in here work. I've never seen Faith turn one of them on. It's a shock when she flips the switch and the hallway illuminates.

"Wow, I can actually see in here," I say sarcastically.

"We'll need to remember to cut them off in about an hour," she says. "I'm not sure how juiced the batteries are with this storm."

"How come Sam's house has power?"

"His roof is covered with panels and he's got multiple batteries in the basement," she explains. "This house is just running on his spares. He wasn't planning on powering it until I came along." Her black hair is matted to her face in thick, wet clumps. A stream of rainwater dribbles from her chin. I can't help but look at the fabric of her gray t-shirt clinging to her breasts. She's not wearing a bra, and her nipples are perfectly outlined.

Faith sets down her box, removes the trash bag, and retrieves the package of elastic wrap. Fumbling with it in her hands, she turns to me. "Listen, Molly. Why don't you go get into some dry clothes and wait for me in the living room? I need to be alone for a sec."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," she says, shaking her head. "I just need to take care of something and I'd rather do it by myself."

"I'm not stupid," I say with a smirk. "It's obvious what you're going to do."

"It will just take me a minute," she insists. "I promise."

"I can help. That's gotta be hard to do one-handed. I'll do it for you." She says nothing back, but her look tells me I shouldn't take that as a yes. I grasp her fingers and smile. "You said you wear the wraps because you don't like to look at them, right?" She nods. "Well, if I change the bandages for you, then you don't have to look at all. Plus, I'll do it faster than you could."

She sighs in defeat. "Just, please don't stare."

"You know I won't." We head for the bedroom and flip on the light. I take the fresh wraps from the box and set them on the vanity next to the bed. She faces me, holding up her wrists like I'm going to handcuff her. Her head tilts back and she stares at the ceiling.

"Please, be quick," she says.

I lovingly take her left arm and remove the clasps holding the wrap in place. Once popped free, it unravels in a second. I unfasten the second and slide both wraps off in unison. I've seen the wounds before, but they're still terribly surreal to behold. There's a quarter-sized hole through each of her wrists. I can see straight through them to the floor below. Out from the holes shoot starbursts of jagged scars. It's hard not to be mesmerized by the sight of them again. She's right: no human being could possibly be alive with wounds like this. Why did I never consider the mental toll that must take?

"Can you please move faster?" she begs. Her hands are trembling. She's still not looking, but it seems even just feeling them exposed is putting her on edge.