Page 16 of Far From Sherwood Forest
I get a shower, making sure to clean my hand and leg thoroughly. It stings like fuck.
Afterward, I put on a pair of boxers, rolling up the left side a bit to get a good look now that my leg’s clean.
Yeah, that’s gonna need stitches.
Fucking asshole.
I go ahead and bandage up my hand since it’s not as bad, wrapping gauze all the way around it. Bringing the first aid kit with me, I exit the bathroom to see John lying on his bed, a glass of whiskey in one hand and his phone in the other. I swear he’s like one of those teenagers with a crush that I’ve seen in movies.
“How do you feel about stitching me up?”
John looks up and grins. “Now you owe me twice.”
“Please don’t tell me you were sexting,” I say as I walk overto the only other sitting area and lower myself carefully onto the old red and blue plaid loveseat. That’s another one of those things I learned from movies.
“NotyetI wasn’t.”
After finishing up a text, John stands, grabbing the bottle of whiskey and a short stool on his way over to the sofa. Once I’m lying on my side, he settles onto the stool and takes a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. Before I can stop him, he pours some over the gash in my leg.
“Fuck!” I scream as the sting from the alcohol shoots all the way up and down my leg. I ball my hands into fists and beat the cushions so I don’t beat John’s face instead. “Fucking hell, John! A little warning would’ve been nice.”
“Stop being a baby. You’re the one who had to go and get shot.”
I grit my teeth and press my face into my arm as he dries up the alcohol.
At least the manner in which we clean and treat a wound is better than it was back in Sherwood Forest. We would’ve poured a little bit of ale over it and wrapped it in a dirty cloth, but, fortunately, we have surgical thread and clean gauze here.
While John stitches me up, he tells me that Emma had been worried after I disappeared tonight. I know he’s just trying to distract me from the pain as I grunt and hiss my way through it, and I appreciate it. But my mind still keeps going back to Henry.
I had forgotten what it was like.
To be theHood.
No, it wasn’texactlylike old times, but it was enough of a reminder. Despite the initial shock and fear I felt at seeing the old Sheriff—and despite his very clear threat—I’m not all that afraid. He probably expects me to hide and cower, but that’s never been who I am, not even here.
Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he washolding back tonight. While I’ve been trying hard to put the past behind me, he’s been consumed by it so much that he was determined to give me a taste of home.
It turns out I didn’t hate it, even if it did end with him shooting me. Twice.
But I’ve had worse.
After tonight, it’s pretty clear that Henry is going throughhisworst right now.
I could keep feeling sorry for him, or I could give him exactly what he wants and throw the hood back on.
It wasn’t enough. Shooting him and watching him bleed wasn’t nearly enough. But it’s alright because we’re far from finished.
A quick death is too good for him.
Even though I have so much more planned, I can’t stop thinking about last night. No, it wasn’t enough, but it was at least something. Making him run was meant to be a game, a way to fuck with his head, but I’m almost ashamed to say Ilikedit. I used to hate chasing him, but maybe what I really hated was that he always got away.
He didn’t get away this time.
As I drive through the park, I grin as each memory of him screaming in pain plays back inside my head like a movie.
I love that fucking sound.
I can’t wait to hear it again.
