Page 45 of Moth
Chapter Nine
He doesn’t belong here. Too tall in this narrow space, he’s too imposing, even while bleeding. Thankfully, the hall is nearly deserted, though the sounds of the other tenants drift through the walls like some surreal reminder of what normalcyshouldbe. I can smell food being cooked in the next unit over as we ascend to the third floor. The faint notes of a radio playing echo from up above as does laughter and murmured conversations.
Beneath those deceptively normal sounds, I also hear drops of moisture striking the floor. Ragged, unsteady breathing. The squeak of rubber grating against metal as the figure behind me struggles to keep his balance on the next step of the staircase. I snatch at his clothing, but he shrugs me off.
“Keep going,” he grunts.
There isn’t time to think. I simply inhale as I power myself up the final flight of stairs to my floor and then hurry down the hall to my apartment. He stays upright until we reach my door. Then he grunts, slumping against my back while I fit my key in the lock.
Our combined weight sends the door flying open, and we both stagger in. Cold air tickles the back of my neck as he brushes past me for my gray armchair and collapses onto it.
“Fuck.” His voice is gruff with pain, reinforcing just how much of his blood is all over my floor. I can’t stop staring at the various scarlet puddles. It seems impossible that one person could lose so much blood and still be coherent.
I don’t know what to do. My vision blurs, and the room starts to spin.
Focus, Hannah.
I race into my kitchen for a rag and throw it down. My heels catch on the terry cloth as I use my foot to drag the fabric across the worst of the blood. But there’s too much of it. It’s everywhere. Dripping over the threshold of my apartment. Leading down the hall…
“A-Alcohol.” Rafe grits out the word from between his teeth. When I just stare, he snaps his fingers. “Do you have any alcohol?”
I shake my head. My family doesn’t drink. Not after Mom’s last stint in rehab all those years ago and Dad’s constant insistence on “therapeutic” sobriety. And Branden’s…issues.
“Shit,” he hisses. “Can you get some?” He watches me carefully. I notice that one of his hands is clenched into a fist and presses down hard against his upper left thigh. The blood keeps appearing in random places—all over his hands and the armrests of my comfy chair. It’s even pooling on the floor at his feet.
“Hey!” He snaps his fingers again. “Can. You. Get. Some?” His lips move slowly, each word carefully enunciated.
Get some. I bolt into the hallway, leaving the door to my apartment wide open. My heels slip on a puddle of scarlet, and I barely catch my balance against the nearest wall.Focus!
Somehow, I’m three units down and knocking on a door with peeling red paint and the scent of cigar smoke wafting from underneath it.
“Hi,” I greet the man who answers the door brightly—a stranger I’ve never taken the time to meet before now. He’s wearing a wifebeater stained with what looks like broth, and I can catch the hint of a naughty movie playing across the old-fashioned TV that dominates his living room.
“Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you,” I start in a rush, “but I’m having some friends over, and I forgot to run to the store for some drinks—” I somehow choke out a laugh. “Do you have…any that I could, um, borrow?”
My fingers are shaking. My toes feel sticky, andGod, I’m too terrified to glance down and see why.
The man—who I vaguely recall from a few awkward exchanges at the collective mailbox—eyes me for what feels like an eternity. Then he turns without a word and rummages through what sounds like cupboards out of sight. A moment later, he returns with two green bottles. “Enjoy,” he grunts before pressing both into my hands and closing the door in my face.
When I finally re-enter my apartment, Rafe’s still seated on my armchair, but his shirt is off. Most likely the wad of dark fabric he has pressed against his thigh.
“Good.” He nods to the bottles of alcohol. “Bring them here.”
I manage to get the door closed one-handed and stagger over to him. He snatches one of the bottles, rips off the cap, takes a sip, and then grimaces. “Sake,” he announces after swallowing. His blood streaks the bottle as he settles it between his hip and the gap in the seat cushion. With one hand, he lifts his bloodied shirt, revealing the bleeding gash along the inside of his left thigh.
“He stabbed you,” I hear myself whisper. It’s a nasty wound, unfathomably deep, and I know right away that he’ll need stitches. It isn’t until he reaches out and bats my hands away—causing my phone to fall to the floor—that I realize I was already in the process of dialing 911.
“No,” he growls. “No cops.”
For once, it’s easy to shrug off the voice that rumbles through my skin. “I’m not letting you bleed to death on my La-Z-Boy—”
“You don’t have to.” He grunts and tries to stand, but his knees buckle. I can almost see the color draining from his skin. “I can fix this. Get me a knife.” His voice isn’t so gruff anymore, lacking the spark I’m used to. He sounds exhausted and in pain. Weak.
911 feels like the only option.
“You need stitches,” I insist.
