Chapter 7 - Changing Bandages
|
The morning light didn't reach the medical wing, but the clinical LED lights were harsh enough. It was time to change the deep dressings on his chest. This was the moment we both dreaded.
Silas offered to have the guards hold him down if the panic became too much. I threw Silas out of the room. Force was the exact opposite of what Vincent needed.
“Alright,” I said, standing beside the bed with a tray of sterile saline, gauze, and medical tape. “I am going to remove the old tape. It’s going to pull at your skin. You have to tell me if you need me to stop.”
Vincent was shirtless, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle twitched in his cheek. The jagged, melted scars of his past merged seamlessly with the fresh, bloody trauma of the bullet holes. He nodded, gripping the metal bedrails until his knuckles turned white.
“Right hand coming toward your left shoulder,” I narrated, keeping my voice in that calm, steady rhythm.
I peeled the tape back. He hissed, his entire body going rigid. The instinct to pull away, to lash out at the touch, was visibly warring with his rational mind. I stopped immediately, leaving my hands hovering an inch from his chest.
“Breathe,” I whispered.
“Keep going,” he gritted out, his eyes squeezed shut.
“Look at me,” I demanded gently. “Don't close your eyes, Vincent. Stay in the present. Look at me.”
He opened his eyes. They locked onto mine. I saw the terrifying storm of PTSD raging behind his pupils, but he anchored himself to my gaze.
I slowly removed the bloody gauze, cleaning the inflamed wounds with warm saline. My fingertips brushed against the thick, raised edges of his burn scars. I didn't pull away in disgust. I traced the edge of the scar gently with a sterile swab, treating the old wounds with the same reverence as the new ones.
“You have gentle hands,” he rasped, his breathing slowing down.
“You just have to trust them,” I replied softly, applying the fresh bandages.
May you like
When I finally taped the last piece of gauze down and stepped back, he let go of the bedrails. He was covered in a light sheen of sweat, but he hadn't panicked. He hadn't fought.
For the first time in eleven years, someone had touched Vincent Mercer’s bare chest, and he hadn't felt the flames.
