Taking one last delicate sip from the mug cradled in my hands, I deliberately slid off from the stool, holding onto the edge of the marble counter.
After having collected some of my thoughts, I had a general sense of the layout of the house. The door that I had deliberately ignored, the one beside the sink, led to the master bedroom. Connecting Ezra's bedroom and the master bedroom was the bathroom. My next destination.
I carefully made my way back to... I guess, my bedroom, and crept into the bathroom, shivering once my feet touched the tile, the bitter cold seeping through my socks.
It made sense, after all. It was the latter half of November and Darron still hadn't gotten the heater fixed. It'd have to wait 'til next paycheck--if he didn't spend it all on gambling first.
I scoffed, shaking my head. And it's not like I would be here to enjoy it once he did. I'd be at the "orphanage".
I flicked on the light, resting against the bowl of the sink, studying the damage in the stained mirror.
Busted lip? Check.
Bruised eye? Check. I leaned forward, carefully touching my cheek. Well, scratch that, not really. He missed the eye. I guess that's why it isn't swollen yet. Left an ugly ass bruise though...
I leaned back, lifting my chin.
The ugliest bruise was right there, on my neck. In uneven blotches that rung around my neck like some crappy choker was a string of blue, black, dark green bruises that would be impossible to cover up.
I lowered my chin, delicately massaging my neck.
I suppose the Transport will have something for this when they arrive...
Running my fingers along the side of the mirror, I found the groove and swung open the medicine cabinet found behind the glass.
Smiley's Pain Killers? Check. I popped a few into my mouth.
Gauze and bandages? Check.
Some disinfectant? I shook the bottle. I guess?
Better than nothing.
Gathering my supplies, I trudged my way back to the kitchen, heated up another kettle of water, and began my makeshift self-care.
Clogging the sink, I dumped the bubbling contents of the kettle inside, setting another batch of cold water onto the stove. Taking a cloth towel from the dish rack beside the sink, I dipped my cold, gash-free hand into the hot water, sucking in a breath of air through my gritted teeth, baring through the temperature shock.
First, I started with my cut lip. I rubbed the crusted blood from the edge of my mouth and delicately dabbed the wound. Once done, I wiped the dried sweat from my face and neck.
After that, I glanced at my hand.
I needed something to remove the small shards of glass from inside...
I rummaged through the kitchen drawers.
Forks...
Spatulas...
Scissors... I'll take those.
I sighed in frustration once done
All I had found from my arduous search was a pair of scissors, tape, and a box of plastic gloves.
I should've expected as much. Why would Darron ever have a pair of tweezers?
I grabbed the belt I had thrown onto the floor earlier and returned to the sink, stuffing the cheap leather into my mouth.
I stared into the water.
This was going to hurt.
Sucking in a breath of air, I plunged my injured hand into the water. I tried to stifle my screams as with my other hand, I rubbed at the scabs that had begun to form, making them break, causing the water to turn a sickening shade of crimson.
Through this painful process, I could feel a few shards of glass begin to loosen and detach from my skin. I yanked my hand from the water and studied my palm in the dim light.
Taking the pair of scissors I very carefully shimmied small fragments that were left buried deeper inside. Accidentally cutting flesh along the way.
Tears streamed down my face once more as I continued the process, only stopping when I couldn't see anymore shards. Fresh, warm blood bled along my palm and trickled down my arm. A few drops dripped into the sink, adding a brighter shade to the crimson water.
I took the bottle of disinfectant and poured it onto my wound, gritting my teeth into the belt through the searing pain.
Once that was done, I took a roll of gauze and wrapped it around my hand--making sure it was bound tight.
After that, I scratched at the roll of tape, secured a strip onto the gauze, and wrapped it around my arm several times; making sure not a single gap was left uncovered.
I stared at my masterpiece. It was the work of an amateur, for sure, but it would do for now. I slipped a glove from the glove box and stuffed my covered hand into it. I carefully wiggled my fingers inside, trying not to disturb the gash in my palm.
I sighed once the process was complete, unclogging the drain, tiredly watching as the bloody water swirled down the sink.
I suppose this was my life now.
To be honest, it wasn't just Ezra's pain keeping me here, trapped in this house. It was also the Transport that was on its way here.
It's not like they hadn't dealt with running kids before. If anything, the act of running put the children in a tougher position when they first get to the "orphanage". The "teachers" will despise them, forever mindful of their "treachery".
If I was forced to go to the "orphanage" either way, I would prefer it to be on "better" terms...
I returned to my spot at the kitchen island, across from the fridge once more. I had brought the kettle of hot water with me on my journey, now pouring myself another cup of hot water. I rested my cheek against my injured palm, gazing at Darron lying on the couch.
It's not like Darron had decided to kill his son out of the blue.
It was an act committed out of shame and regret, laced with a sense of fear as to the consequences of his actions.
I mean, in the comic he got punished either way, but it was the irrational thought of possible escape that pushed him to make his decision.
I snickered, shaking my head. What will he think now that I'm alive?
No doubt his sense of guilt will eat him alive. He'll forever think that he failed in his act of "mercy".
I suppose his sense of shame will kick in next. The presence of the Transport will remind him of how horrible of a father he was. After all, he sold his only child to cover the debts that he had accrued from his years of drunken gambling. He'll no doubt be acutely mindful of the Transport's "judgement". As if they'd give a damn. They got what they wanted. Another fresh body...
A set of powerful knocks broke through the rain-pattered silence. "Hello, Police!" A gruff voice could be heard from the opposite side of the front door.
Finally the man on the couch stirred with activity. A groan parted from his lips as he pressed an arm against his head.
"Hello, I know you're in there! You're not in trouble, I just need a witness testimony!" The man on the other side continued, setting another series of raps on the door.
I sighed into my mug. Me turning on the lights caused this Butterfly Effect, huh? I couldn't help but chuckle. There was a reason I liked Alec. Ever the diligent detective...
Darron jolted forward, sitting up now, dropping the bottle that was upon his chest onto the floor. He turned to face the door but froze upon catching sight of me. His eyes widened slightly.
"You're alive..." He muttered.
He studied me, his befuddled gaze belied his expression of concern. His dried, cracked lips spread apart in a small gape that he didn't seem to notice was open. His eyebrows knit together, crinkling the wrinkles on his forehead.
That wasn't a statement of concern, but a clear observation. A fact that left no room for interpretation. A fact that clearly left him puzzled, dominating his hung-over haze.
It was as if my survival was his wake up call.
I turned my eyes back to the stained fridge that stood across the marble counter, locking onto nothing in particular. I delicately drew another sip of hot water, holding it on my tongue, embracing the scorching burn of the cut on my lip.
I suppose it was for the both of us...
Our wake up call.
"Shit." Darron cursed under his breath as he stumbled from the couch. "Shit, shit, shit, I'm not ready."
I hid the smirk that tugged at my lips with the mug, pretending to sip once more.
"Hello?" Alec called out on the other side.
"Coming!" Darron yelled out, grabbing a worn out jacket from the coat rack.
He snapped his head to face me.
"Stay right there, we'll talk about what happened in a sec."
I couldn't believe his audacity, slightly impressed by it. To ask the murder victim to stay silent after having just attempted to murder them... Brilliant.
But I'll comply.
Not for him, but for myself.
The Transport was almost here, after all...