Page 20 of The Misfits
“Oomph,” I try again.
He remains as quiet as I’ve been the past five years.
Confident my trembling legs are two seconds away from collapsing, I trudge toward the dark cabin. My steps are soundless. Only the crunch of dried leaves is audible.
The closer I approach the wooden cabin, the wider my eyes grow. It’s one of those properties you’d expect in a horror flick. It is dingy and dark and reminds me of my childhood home.
My family estate wasn’t always derelict and rundown. Before my mother passed, it was a beautiful country manor. I tried to keep the property to her level of cleanliness after her death, but no amount of scrubbing could mask the scent of her corpse. I tried. It just wasn’t possible.
When I take the first stair on the warped patio, it creaks under our combined weight. My eyes rocket to the door, hopeful the massive screech hasn’t announced our arrival. The last thing I want to do is startle a man with a gun. We had unexpected visitors arrive on our property all the time when my mom disappeared. They had big books filled with tiny little words and pointy, screwed-up noses.
They stopped coming after my dad greeted them with a shotgun slung over his shoulder.
We never had any visitors after that.
When the creak fails to result in any lights coming on, I make my way to the only door on the entire property. It’s not surprising there is only one exit and entry point. The space is so small, it’s only half the size of the living room in my family home.
I hiss and moan as we enter the dark room. I sound like an alley cat in the midst of a brawl, but if it saves me from being shot, I’m all for it.
The room is very basic. There’s a box under a dusty window on my right, a double mattress to my left, and a stack of old pallets being used as a pantry. I think there may be a bathroom hidden behind the back wall, but with half-casted moonlight my only source of light, I’m not willing to advance any closer.
Confident the only living thing inside the cabin is mold and mildew, I head for the double bed shoved in the far left-hand corner of the poorly lit space. Dexter releases a long, simpering moan when I place him on the bed.
The reason for his pained groan comes to light when he rolls onto his stomach. The back of his shirt is bright red. The blood seeping from a circular wound is flowing at a frantic rate. I must act quickly, or he will bleed out.
Although Dexter’s eyes are snapped shut, I wordlessly advise him I’ll be back in a minute. I know he can hear me. We’ve communicated like this many times the past six weeks. Brief glances, furled lips, and the occasional note slip not only kept me out of harm’s way, but they also piqued my curiosity.
That’s why I arrived at Dexter’s room tonight. My inquisitiveness got the better of me. Although I would have preferred our night not be filled with violence, my heart has never raced so fast. The adrenaline rush you get from rule-breaking is addictive—almost as enticing as the moan that left Bryce’s lips when I struck him with the shovel.
I gag, scream, and nearly give up on my endeavor three times before I gather all the instruments needed to fix Dexter’s wound. I don’t know who owns this cabin, but they should be ashamed of themselves. The moldy sandwich in the sink is swarming with bugs, and the mirror above the vanity is smeared with so much dust, I thought I was a ghost. There’s only one time a home should be this messy—when you’re hiding the scent of a decaying corpse.
With half a bottle of whiskey, a sewing kit, and a sturdy length of thread I plucked from the hem of Dexter’s shirt, I exhale a deep breath then sit on a tiny stool next to the bed. I’m not a doctor, but I had ample experience mending broken bones and cracked faces during my childhood.
When I patched her up, my mom was as brave as Dexter is being now. Not once did she cry when crippled with pain. Some days, her legs didn’t work, yet she still packed my school lunch every single day.
I really miss her.
More than I should.
Daddy said she is the reason I am sick, that the bug in her head transferred to mine when I grew in her stomach. I thought she was perfect. Her moods fluctuated a lot, but that’s what made her so much fun. There were days when she sang songs at the top of her lungs while painting my room with bright yellow sunflowers. Then other days she’d make the bathwater so hot, my skin bubbled with blisters.
She was different, but she was my mom, so I loved her all the same.
Apology after apology rolls through my head when I pry Dexter’s shirt away from his wound. The drenched material comes away without too much force but discovering the cause for the frantic flow of blood makes me gasp. Dexter has been shot, but there is no exit wound.
That can only mean one thing.
The bullet is still lodged in his back.
I smack my forehead four times, shutting up the stupid thoughts streaming through my mind. I can’t dig the bullet out. I just can’t. I don’t like blood. It is pretty and bright, but it generally accompanies death.
I don’t want Dexter to die. That’s why I carried him on my back for over two hours.
If you don’t remove the bullet, he will die!
My palm bangs my forehead until it’s raw. I hate listening to the voices in my head, but this time, I don’t have a choice. She is right. If I don’t remove the bullet, Dexter will bleed out. It isn’t a matter of if. It is a matter of when. It could be an hour. It could be minutes. I haven’t watched enough crime shows to gauge a better timeframe.
Before I lose the courage, I plunge two fingers into Dexter’s wound. I freeze in surprise when my body doesn’t respond how I was anticipating. I thought I’d gag or, at the very least, squeal in disgust, but the stark coolness of his blood is too shocking.
