Capítulo 12: Open Sore
Despite the ambient heat of the ship, ice spread across my body and a clammy sweat broke out on my forehead.
For some reason, everything seemed to be vibrating, but I realized that it was I who was shaking like a leaf.
I tried again to stand and dug my fingers into the area around my wound, wet and sticky with warm blood.
I had always had a higher pain threshold than my peers—years of being kicked, hit with soccer balls, and just general injuries sustained from an active childhood.
This though . . . this was a whole new level of 'hurt'.
My escort cocked his head to the side and reached out to grab my wounded shoulder. I flinched away out of instinct, overwhelmed by the need to keep the extent of the damage from him.
What if he decided it was too bad? He would leave me. Discard me without a second thought. Maybe even put me down out of pity.
It was better he didn't know.
"It's nothing. I'll be fine. I can keep going," I rasped, my throat raw.
However, he insisted on examining me. Grinding my teeth, I struggled to to my feet and took a step away from him. Tender bruises blossomed on various parts of my body, creating a stiffness in my limbs.
I staggered, but I managed to stay standing and I puffed my chest out.
"I'm fine, really." I forced the confidence into my voice. "Let's just keep going."
His head cocked in the other direction, but the angle of his mask let me know he was staring at my wound. I turned my torso to hide it but he lashed out faster than I could react. He yanked my hand away from the wound, leaving me to squeak and wiggled in his grasp, but he was firm.
Realizing struggle was futile, I relented and turned my head away, my jaw set. Stringing a sentence together was difficult, but I did it. "It's fine! I'll be fine. I'll just . . . I'll bandage it up and be good as new."
My escort peeled torn fabric from the raw skin, then pushed me toward a table against the back wall until I was forced to sit.
He turned away and made to leave. I hopped down to follow. Once more he turned to face me, this time growling. I sat back down on the table and he watched me before turning away once more.
It might have been the pain muddling my mind, but I knew he was abandoning me.
"I still got some fight left in me you pompous ass." I jumped off the table and took an unsteady step toward him, licking my dry lips. "I told you I'm perfectly fine!"
He watched me for a second, studying the stern look on my face, and his shoulders shook. The action confused me, but then he started to make a strange rumbling sound that turned into a strange trill.
I realized after a moment that he was laughing.
"What's so funny?" I demanded, swaying.
At first, he didn't answer. Instead, he took a few large strides toward me and put a hand on my good shoulder, pushing me down.
I resisted until he pushed hard. I complied with a grimace. He made the same "stay" motion from before, then walked away.
This time I didn't argue. I pressed my lips into a thin line and applied pressure to the wound, though it hurt. It didn't seem to be putting a stop to the bleeding, either, and I was so COLD.
My vision kept coming in and out of focus, but I could make out the horrible wound on my shoulder—the puckered skin with bits of fabric stuck to the edges, blood oozing and soaking the front of my shirt, dripping down my fingertips.
Narrowing my eyes, I brushed my fingers over the gory mark. At least I didn't think anything had been broken; it was right in the fleshy part of my left shoulder, below my clavicle. It seemed superficial, but I wasn't a doctor.
Certainly looked horrible, that's for sure.
Staring at the bloody mess was making me woozy so I tried to see what the alien was doing. He hadn't even left the room, making me feel like a fool.
He moved about pulling crust and slime from the walls to examine cubbies hidden beneath. After a minute, he didn't find what he was looking for and growled, dissatisfied.
Though I wanted to ask what he was looking for, all of my energy was going toward the arduous task of remaining upright.
He detached something from his back and returned to me, setting the pack on the table. With a push of a button, it opened up like a mechanical tackle box. I leaned in to steal a better look and he allowed it, running his finger over the various tools.
Empty syringes, strange clamps, and a lot of missing pieces.
Again he chittered in annoyance, then looked up at my shoulder. He pulled my hand away to examine the wound, then clicked and rattled too fast for me to follow. I was beginning to pick out patterns in his speech.
With an angry jab, he closed up the med pack and tossed it aside. He pulled me off the table and motioned for me to follow.
It was no wonder the med pack was so empty—he had staples holding together some wounds and a dried substance on others. There were so many injuries he'd had to treat after the crash and various attacks, he'd used all of it up and needed more.
Sighing, I hopped off the table and my legs immediately buckled. My escort caught me under my bad arm and I sucked in a sharp breath, biting my tongue against a cry of pain.
He lifted me up and held me until I found my balance, then let go of my arm. I tucked it against my side, holding my shoulder with a tight grip.
This time I didn't have a quip or complaint. I was too dizzy to speak, and I swayed where I stood. The alien watched me for a second, then stepped aside to let me go.
I glanced at him with half-lidded eyes, then nodded and took a few steps forward.
I didn't make it four paces before I collapsed. He was there, catching me across the chest and holding me.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't even straighten up. I trembled in my escort's embrace, trying to make the floor come into focus, but failing.
After a second, where it became apparent to him I couldn't do it on my own, he churred and heaved me up, tossing me over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. All I managed was a barely coherent protest.
His steps had me bouncing painfully against his armor, but it beat dragging myself across the ground after him.
Blood dripped down my arm onto the floor as we walked, my shirt's sleeve saturated beyond its threshold. Oh. That would explain it.
/I'm going to die from blood loss,/ I realized, too out of it to muster anything but apathy.
In fact, I couldn't feel much of anything anymore.
Despite my best efforts to stay awake and lucid, I slipped in and out of consciousness. I fought tooth and nail not to pass out completely, afraid that if I did, I wouldn't wake back up.
It helped to focus on the strange noise coming from my escort as he carried me—almost like the purring of a cat. He kind of reminded me of a reptile, though, with his scaly skin . . . why would he be purring?
/He's an alien . . . he can do whatever he wants./
Somewhere in the background, a beeping sound echoed. Something wasn't working properly, it sounded like. I listened to it for a while, but it eventually faded into silence.
During one of my more lucid moments, I managed to gather enough energy to lift my laden arm and brush my fingers against the nearest wall. I wasn't sure why, but my drunken-like stupor made me feel better, somehow.
Then I was back to hanging there limply over my escort's shoulder and trying not to lose myself.
Eventually, after another bout of quasi-unconsciousness, my escort unloaded me onto a table. The movement made the floor and walls blur and then I was on my back, staring at the swirling ceiling.
I thought I was going to hurl, but eventually, everything stabilized again. However, if I tried to sit up or otherwise displace myself, it all started over again so I just remained still.
This one was similar to the previous room we'd been in except the walls were free of the alien pest resin. The contents of the area were strewn about the floor just like the other room, too.
I imagined the only reason the table was still upright was that it might have been bolted to the floor. Otherwise, the crash had left the ship and this room is a state of disarray.
Lying down made it even harder to keep my eyes open. I was so exhausted and cold, tired from shaking and still in pain. Now, on top of all that, I couldn't quite catch my breath. All I wanted was to sleep, but I forced myself to stay awake.
Just like with passing out, I was terrified that I wouldn't wake back up
I wheezed and panted, trying to pay attention to what he was doing. The small sounds I made brought his attention to me and after examining my symptoms, he tapped away at his wrist computer.
He watched me, then went back to right one of the fallen machines. He tried to turn it on, but it only sparked and fizzled. He snarled and shoved it back onto its side.
My eyelids drooped and I blinked hard, trying to bring my vision back into focus. In the back of my mind, the wound on my shoulder throbbed. I focused on the pain, trying to stay conscious.
And yet, the next thing I knew, the pressure of his hand on my good shoulder was dragging me from my doze. Startled, I thrashed around until he restrained me.
Even then I struggled for another moment, growling until my escort snarled an admonishment and brought me out of whatever trance I'd been in.
His familiar sounds stilled my flailing and I blinked up at him with bleary vision. After some more blinking and eye-rubbing, he came into focus.
"What? No—what? I'm fine. I'm fine." I was slurring: my tongue was dry and swollen.
He chuffed and tore my shirt to give him more room to work. I protested in a meek voice but could do nothing to stop him. He showed me a freaking horse syringe with a clear liquid in the tube. I eyed it nervously but nodded.
My escort flexed his fingers and held me down with his free hand, gave me one last sympathetic glance, before jabbing the wicked needle into the center of my wound.
I yelped and squirmed but he held me fast. It was all done in a matter of seconds, though, and he pulled the syringe out after only applying a small amount.
Whatever he injected me with, I could feel it sludging through my veins, hot and uncomfortable. I winced and fidgeted, clutching at my chest. Soon enough, though, the pain in my shoulder ebbed. However, the dizziness tripled and I curled into the fetal position.
He watched me and grumbled to himself for a moment.
I tried to ask him what he gave me, but the only thing that came out of my mouth was absolute gibberish. After the second attempt, I stopped speaking.
He looked at me, then made a strange noise I couldn't describe—a word I couldn't fathom. The world twisted and melted in front of my eyes and I had to clench them shut. The medicine he'd given me was making me feel even heavier.
To combat nausea sweeping through me, I focused on breathing. In through my nose, out through my mouth.
THAT was a losing battle.
Somehow I had the presence of mind to turn and lean over the back of the table before retching. All I managed was a round of dry-heaving, bile caught in the back of my throat.
Whimpering, I didn't move from that position until he made me. He flipped me over onto my back with a quiet click, his ministrations gentle for once.
Whatever he'd given me made everything numb. I wanted to lift my hand to wipe my mouth, but couldn't manage more than a few centimeters.
Part of me was aware of my escort's care—a slight pressure as he used a device to flush the wound clean and then another one to stable it shut. He smeared something cool and soothing over it and then kept an eye on me.
When he was satisfied with my state, he left me to recover on the table and went about dressing his own wounds. After making sure he wasn't going to leave, I shut my eyes to keep from watching the room spiral in upon itself.
My breathing came a little easier, and something high up in the ceiling was hissing. If I wasn't so sure I was safe with my escort, the sound would have freaked me out.
But he was around. If there was danger, he would know before I did.
For the time being, I could relax and focus on recuperating—which meant finally allowing myself the luxury of taking a cat nap. The sounds of my escort rummaging around helped lull me into security and I drifted, able to ignore drug-induced nausea for the time being.
As the minutes ticked down, the muck in my bloodstream filtered out. The pain was gone, and I thought maybe my body was adjusting to the foreign medicine.
He hadn't even given me that much, and though the wound didn't hurt I could feel the beginnings of a headache pounding at my skull. At least the world had stopped spinning, and at least I wasn't in all that pain anymore.
I did wind up dozing off at some point, exhausted beyond reason and unable to deny my body's need any longer—rest. Wonderful, blissful rest.
My escort woke me up at some point. Blinking the last of drug-induced fuzz from my vision, I peered up at his impassive, unreadable mask. He canted his head and then stepped aside so I had to room to get off the table.
I rubbed my eyes and slid to my feet. Somehow I managed to stand without collapsing and I took a steadying breath.
When I was sure I would be able to form actual words, I spoke.
"Thank you for your help." I enunciated each syllable with careful precision, squaring my shoulders and trying to meet him eye to eye. It was hard when he was three heads taller than me.
He gave me a deep nod and turned toward the door. I caught a glimpse of the giant gash on his chest from the fight—it had its own sutures and had stopped bleeding.
With his back turned, I shed my bloody and torn shirt, discarding it on the ground; the thing was little more than rags at this point.
Slow and deliberate, I brushed my fingers over the strange sutures holding my shoulder together. They were big, metal, and heavy—not made for my delicate human flesh.
They were working for the intended purpose, though, and it was way more than I thought I'd receive in the event of injury. Part of me had been pretty certain that I would have to keep myself together, not that he would play nurse and tend to me.
Though I didn't know how to pay him back yet, I was deeply grateful.
Heat be damned, I put my jacket back on and zipped it up, then joined him at the room's exit.
REFLEXIONES DE LOS CREADORES 
Imagine_Kayla
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