D'Amor Sull'Ali Rosee

Pandora And The Angel Of Death

"Very well. Can you stitch?"

She was not ready to hear that.

"I...I think so? I've never done it before."

He nodded. "There's a bottle of brandy in the kitchen. Bring along a couple of towels as well."

  Without a question, she followed his orders, rushing to find everything he had asked for. When she returned, he had managed to grab the medical supplies from a nearby drawer. The needles shove under the light and her head spun. Air was scarce in the room.

  She handed him the towels, watching as he soaked them both in the alcohol. With the cloth in his hands, he moved towards her face and she momentarily panicked.

"It'll stop the nausea, my dear. It will help you."

  She tried to fight the urge to rip it off as he tied the towel around her mouth and nose. Only the smell and she could swear feeling drunk.

  Now, down to business. Too afraid to hurt him, she lifted the shirt from the wound. She tried looking for a place to start, a point deeper than the others, but all was a blur; scarlet, torn flesh, a spark of white peeking from deep down where she could tell was his rib.

"That's...it's too dangerous, Erik. I will hurt you."

He laughed bitterly.

"My sweet, I swear there is little damage you could do," he breathed deeply. "I would...do it myself...but I can't reach it. I tried." He coughed harshly again.

  This vulnerability created a strong urge in her to protect him at all cost. She felt almost heroic and wore her brave face as she pierced the needle through the deepest layer of skin. The texture...thick, soft flesh, surrounded by dry thin skin, ready to tear more. The iron smell of blood on her hands...she gagged and shook.

   A firm hand wrapped around her waist, as if to support her. She looked up; his jaw was clenched, his eyes betrayed agony, yet he did not mouth a word.

"Erik..."she whimpered.

"Go on," he rasped.

   And so she did. It took them almost an hour and when it was finally over, they both exhaled in relief. He ran a hand through his wet hair and she tore the cloth from her face. He tried to sit up.

"Don't move," she ordered, earning a curious look from the menacing phantom. "You are my responsibility. Sit down and let me do it."

   He simply raised an eyebrow and did not protest, even though she could see a pained grin creeping onto his thin lips.

   Surprised by that air of newfound confidence, she showered him with affection and care. Walking to his wardrobe, her cheeks turned crimson as she ran through his clothes; his suits and ties and shirts were hanging in front of her and choosing his shirt felt oddly intimate.

You're imagining things, stop it and focus, she reprimanded herself.

   Kneeling beside him on the floor, she ran her hands under his wet shirt, feeling him freeze under her touch. She indulged in this new feeling; his skin was soft and, despite being able to touch his bones, she craved the contact. It was only then that she realised he was burning up. Her hands swiftly took off his shirt, leaving him exposed to her innocent eyes. She tried not to think of the endless scars all around his body, but involuntarily caught a glimpse of something marked on his right shoulder blade; a small tattoo.

"What is that?" She smiled.

"What? Oh, that. A souvenir from my days in Tehran," he took another sip from the now nearly empty bottle.