Page 21 of The Misfits
Is this normal?
Should he be this cold?
Ignoring Dexter’s groans from my fingers digging around in his wound, I continue to hunt for the bullet. I pretend I am seeking the shards of glass my mom hid in my dad’s porridge. It’s like a treasure hunt, just gorier and tainted with the smell of death.
The gagging I expected earlier comes full force when my fingers curl around something cooler than Dexter’s blood. Its smooth surface leaves no doubt of its identity. It is a soul-stealing bullet.
My hands are tiny, but there’s no way I can remove them along with the bullet and not rip Dexter’s wound. I have to hurt him to save him—just like my dad did for my mom.
I grunt in apology when Dexter’s painful moan coincides with his eyes rolling into the back of his head. The wound didn’t tear too much. He’ll only need a few more stitches, but his groan speaks to the torrent of pain raining down on him.
After dumping the blood-smeared bullet onto the bedside table, I secure the bottle of whiskey in my hands. It’s supposed to remove germs from the wound before I sew the hole shut, but my hands are shaking so badly, I take three giant swigs before pouring the remnants over the singed hole.
Dexter roars as violently as my throat burns from the amber liquid sliding into my gut. He thrashes against the mattress, his battle cries the loudest I’ve heard. Panicked his screams will alert people to our whereabouts, I muffle his mouth with my hand. I am shaking so profoundly, the tremble of my hand shudders up my arm, but my shakes have nothing on the frenetic quivers wreaking havoc with Dexter’s body. He’s shuddering as if he is surrounded by six inches of snow.
Once Dexter’s groans simmer to a purr, I remove my hand from his mouth. I don’t want to get back to the next stage of my operation, but I don’t have a choice.
Last part, then you’re done, I say in my head while working up the courage to pierce a threaded needle through Dexter’s angry, red skin.
Mercifully, he handles the needle’s sting much better than the burn of alcohol. He lies perfectly still as I stitch his wound in the same pattern my daddy taught me when we sealed my mother’s eyes shut. He is so motionless I worry I clamped his mouth too long. If it weren’t for the goosebumps prickling his skin, I’d check for a pulse. Your skin doesn’t show signs of being cold when you’re dead. It goes blue and smelly. Sometimes it even slides away from the bones it’s covering.
My shoulders straighten when I finalize the last stitch. My medical skills are rusty, but the thick, white thread that contrasts with Dexter’s olive skin has successfully closed his wound.
Now you need to work on his plummeting body temperature.
After warning my head to be quiet, I sling my eyes to the right before shifting them to the left. The owner of this cabin must be a daytime-only visitor because there aren’t any blankets or clothing in sight.
When I stand to inspect the cabin more thoroughly, my dress clings to my skin. Dexter isn’t the only one saturated head to toe. My hair is stuck to my shivering back, and my dress is so drenched even my panties are soaked through.
While rubbing the goosebumps on my arms, I circle the old wooden floor. The creak of the warped material matches the squeaks of the mattress springs from Dexter’s violent shudders as he works through the pain. My thorough search of the tiny cabin comes up empty-handed. I am no closer to discovering a way to increase Dexter’s body temperature.
You could...
“No!”I shout at the voice inside my head.
My daddy said getting into a bed with a man without my clothes on would send me to hell. I don’t want to go to hell because my father will most likely be there waiting for me. I was only freed from his madness because my love for Nick triumphed over the love I had for him. If it didn’t, I’d still be walking amongst the flames.
I didn’t want to kill my father, but I had no choice. He told me I had to choose between Nick and him.
I picked Nick.
I’ve never regretted my decision.
No!I internally warn again, hating the whiny voice in my head cautioning me that Dexter will die if I don’t do what she’s suggesting. I don’t want him to die, but there must be another way I can save him that doesn’t involve removing my clothes.
Ignoring the other voices in my head calling me names, I pace to the window box on the opposite side of the room. Perhaps if I put some distance between Dexter and me, the crazy thoughts will stop, and clarity will form in its place.
I should let him die. Dexter isn’t like Nick. He’s evil.He’s bad. He doesn’t love me with every fiber of his being. He was just using me as a means to escape.Wasn’t he?
You’re so stupid!
“No, I’m not!”I pound my head, teaching the snarky voice a lesson about what happens when you’re mean to me.
The rattle of my brain against my skull shuts them up right away.
I’m not stupid. I am merely confused by Dexter’s attention. He brings out my reckless side, the side not worried about the wicked thoughts in my head. The evil in his eyes encourages my evil to flourish. We are similar, yet different, if that makes any sense?
Although my life would be less complicated without him in it, I can’t help but be drawn to him. It isn’t just his wild spirit. It’s something much deeper than that. For years, I thought my heart was broken. It still ticked, but its beat was slow and out of time.
