Page 116 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

“Dave, I—”

“What’s going on?” I ask, interrupting her. “Is someone else here?”

“No, there’s no one.”

It’s only then that I notice her red face. Then I spot the blood. The once white towel wrapped around her hand that is now mostly soaked through with crimson. My heart is beating a million times per minute. What’s happened here? “Izzy, you’re hurt.”

We both glance at her injured hand, and she instinctively pulls it in closer to herself. “It’s nothing.”

You can’t leave me, or I’ll—I’ll . . . I’ll kill myself. I’m going to slit my wrists and it will all beyour fault!

Panic settles in my heart. No, no. No.No.“You’re bleeding all over the carpet, Izzy, this isn’t nothing,” I shout.

She flinches. “I—” Her concerned eyes bounce all over my face. “Dave? Are you—” She steps closer, and I can hardly breathe. The air won’t enter my lungs and my vision blurs, the focus darting in and out around me. Her uninjured hand reaches out to touch me, and I realize just how fast my chest is heaving. Am I having a heart attack?

“Dave,” she whispers. “I’m okay. It was just an accident.”

“An a-accident—” I get out. My eyes finally find the shattered remnants of what appears to be an ashtray.

“It just broke and when I tried to pick it up it cut me,” she says calmly.

“So you weren’t—you weren’t trying—”

Her eyebrows lift. “Trying to what?” she asks.

Relief settles over my skin, sinking down to calm my heart and force air into my tight chest. “Nothing,” I say, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “Here, let me see.”

“It’s fine, I can—” But she flinches.

“Come back to my room. I have bandages and antiseptic.”

Her head tilts. “You do?”

I hold up my own hands. “Occupational hazard. Sometimes the calluses split or I get a bad blister that bursts.”

“Oh. Eww.”

“Come on,” I say, ushering her out into the freezing air then into my room. The TV is still on and it’s cold in here after stupidly leaving the door open when I ran out. I nudge her toward my bathroom and flip the toilet seat down. “Here. Sit.”

She does as she’s told while I grab the small kit out of my bag. When I come back, I take out the roll of bandages and the hydrogen peroxide. “Give me your hand.”

Sniffling, she holds out her hand wrapped in the bloody towel. I gently unwrap it to find a gash in her palm. “Ouch,” I say,bringing her hand over the sink so the blood doesn’t drip on the floor. “The bleeding seems to have started to clot, so I don’t think you’ll need stitches.”

“Stitches?” she says a bit hysterically.

I offer a soft smile. “Never had stitches before?”

She shakes her head and shivers. “Ugh, no.”

I shrug. “They’re not so bad. This is going to sting though,” I say and then pour the hydrogen peroxide over her cut.

She hisses and tries to pull her hand away, but I grip her wrist tightly. Our eyes meet. “How did it happen? The ashtray, I mean.”

“Oh.” She looks away. “It slipped out of my hand.”

She’s lying. I know I heard that thing hit the wall. “And the shouting?” I ask, peering up at her.

With a sigh, she tilts her head back. “Just a rough conversation with my mom, and I guess I’m just a bit stressed with a problem I need to solve for the article withEarworm. . . Anyway, it’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”

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