Post by will on Aug 19, 2013 21:43:17 GMT -5
Press and hold.
The bleeding, why won't it stop?
It seeps through the makeshift bandage pulled tight against his thigh, staining the silk, and he swears he can see familiar shapes in the stains. Just there he can make out the wings of a butterfly stretched in flight, beautiful and fleeting as more blood seeps through and the wings become a point, slightly rounded, but still a point, the butterfly a diamond. Shit
This is bad. This is really, really bad. It hadn't looked that bad earlier, but it had been dark then, and Will hadn't really been looking. He hadn't wanted to know.
Arceus only knows how he's managed to make it this far. He's never been good with pain, even less so when it's physical. The other sort, at least, is familiar and, while emotional scars are no less permanent, at least they don't leave visible signs. How will he hide this from the others? From Lance? He isn't entirely sure that he can. The pain is starting to get to him now and he makes his way over to the bed with a visible limp, his leg dragging every few steps. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn. This wasn't supposed to happen. It was supposed to be a quick recon mission, in and out, no shots fired, no bloody bullets lodged in his Arceus damned leg.
He seats himself on the edge of the bed. The bandage sticks when he tugs at it, pulling at his flesh, and he winces. Then there's the blood. He's never liked the sight of blood, and he finds that he likes the feel of it encrusted upon his skin even less. So much blood. How does a leg even manage to bleed that much?
His pant leg is covered in the stuff, the rich fabric plastered against his skin, and he breaks his usual level of decorum, muttering curses under his breath foul enough to make a sailor blush as he stands and undoes his belt, working the fabric down his hips ever so slowly, inch by agonizing inch, knowing what must come next. What does come next. Pain. He isn't cut out for this, nearly passes out as the first wave overtakes him. Agony, white hot agony. It feels like being shot all over again. His fingers tighten on the fabric, give it a sharp tug, and he whimpers as it pulls free.
A few fibers cling stubbornly to the wound, the blood temporarily bonding them to the area. He'll need to sterilize it to avoid infection. He knows this. Logically. He knows. But theory and practice are quite different matters, and it may well have to wait until later, because he's not sure how much more of this he can take. And there's still the bullet itself to consider.
Will feels bile rise in the back of his throat at the thought of removing it himself. He leans his head back, takes a few deep breaths, eyes closed - Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Repeat – trying to calm himself, waiting for his stomach to settle before he hooks his fingers into the waistband of his boxers and gives them a quick tug. He stumbles this time. Pain and blood loss have made him a weak, clumsy thing. So much blood. He grabs onto the bedpost for support, feels the world dip and dim for a moment before coming back into focus. Not good. He takes a breath, feels his thigh throb in response. It has it's own heartbeat now: a steady, agonizing rhythm that he can feel all the way down his leg.
There's a prayer on his lips, but he doesn't believe in Gods, and the roof doesn't open up to admit a beam of light to soothe his troubles or take him from the world, though he swears that he can see stars when he finally reaches the bathroom and pours the antiseptic over the wound. It hisses as it runs down his leg, or he does, Will isn't entirely sure which, and it feels as though it's trying to work it's way through the wound rather than into it. He pressed a finger against his leg, just two inches shy of the wound. Moves it closer. Takes a ragged breath – inhale....exhale - and wiggles his index finger into the hole, questing for the bullet for less than a second before the tile rushes up to meet him.
