DIRTY BULLETS

chapter thirty

"FOR THE LAST Goddamn time, would you stop fucking moving." I flared through gritted teeth, my patience wearing too thin as I glared at Harry with narrow eyes.

"All that shit is unnecessary, just shove the needle in Jesus." He spat back, his face turning into an angry scowl as he watched me continue to dab at the open wound with a cloth, trying to at least slow down the bleeding.

We were currently sat in a rather empty car park near a convenience store that I had just purchased all the necessary equipment from to sort Harry's damn arm out.

He was sat on the hood of the truck, legs spread as he hunched forward, his injured arm brought in front of him at an angle that I'd be able to reach as I stood on the ground in front of him.

After settling that I would be the one to stitch him up – against my better judgement I'm sure – we only drove for a little while longer before Harry pulled into this place. Here, he trusted me to get all the necessities I would be needing by myself, seeing as his arm was coated in a sleeve of his own blood.

And although the convenience store was small, I managed to get the bare minimum needed. The needle, thread and water laid on the hood just next to where Harry sat while a large bottle of vodka was stashed in between his thighs. Every now and then he would bring the bottle to his lips and gulp a sickening amount from it as though it were water.

As if on cue, I caught sight of his uninjured arm lifting the bottle back to his lips once more and I scowled at the action.

"Stop drinking my disinfectant and do something useful." I scolded, grabbing the bottle that was still pressed to his lips before replacing it with the bloody fabric. "Hold that to the wound." I then instructed and he rolled his eyes at me though didn't argue, before doing as I had been prior, pressing the cloth to the injury.

I was surprised he wasn't acting as cruel and heartless as usual, taking my slight attitude on the chin as I did my best to heal him. Perhaps his mild civility was his way of showing appreciation, for once not being an asshole and treating me like shit since I was doing him a favour. Or perhaps it was the way his eyes were hooded, his skin paler than usual as I was sure even a sociopath like him would feel woozy losing the amount of blood that he had. He simply didn't have the energy to be as malicious as usual.

A pair of latex gloves I had found in the store covered my hands as I picked up a needle from the pack of ten before grabbing the bottle of vodka and disinfecting it with the alcohol. I then managed to push the thread through the eye of the needle before giving Harry a nod to remove the blood-soaked rag from his arm.

He lifted it from the wound, his hand falling down to the hood as he shifted his weight onto it. Opening the water bottle, I liberally poured it over the injury, watching as a lot of the excess blood washed away with the water. The gash was about an inch and a half long, and it slightly disrupted one of his tattoos – one of a human heart it looked like. You could still just about make out what it was, but as a whole the artwork looked ruined. Harry didn't seem to care though.

Shuffling a little closer to his arm I held the needle up level to the injury. My hands were shaking a little out of nervousness and Harry's fierce eyes on me weren't helping.

"Aren't you going to disinfect it?" He grumbled out, nodding his head to his arm.

"No that'll just damage the skin and slow down healing." I told him, eyeing up the cut for a moment before resting the fingertips of my hand that didn't hold the needle on either side of the gash. Harry raised his eyebrows at what I said but stayed quiet.

Looking to his face, I bit my lip in anticipation before telling him. "This'll hurt a lot – you ready?"

He just groaned in irritation. "Just fucking do it, Jesus Christ."