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A knock, third one tonight. Soft, gentle even, like easy going chimes, on a soft sunny- you cut yourself off. Now’s not the time, you dont allow yourself those thoughts anymore. The gentleness shocks you, sounds like a child… or a wounded animal, you scoff to yourself. You peep through the hole on your door, through the skyline you can see the city burning, it gives a halo around the mutilated boy in front of you. His bloodied, disgusting even, face. Covered in dirt, in blood, wires surrounding his mouth. Tear filled eyes look at you though the peephole, yea.. Wounded for sure.
“Mmmh! Mmmhmmh?” its a cry, a plead if you've ever heard one, begging you.. To be let in, like everyone else whos come to your door the past two weeks since this shit started. Only difference being this boy, purple hair, earring in one ear, particular looking in everyway, was mangled. His jaws skin is barely holding on. Blood, new and old, dripping onto his orange jacket hung out his shoulders. He whimpers out again. You sigh heavy to yourself, thinking of all the supplies you have in your bathroom- the little to nothing supplies but, some is better than none.
“Come in.” gruffly said as you unlock every single lock on the door to let him in, slowly as to not scare him further. A whimper rings out as you open the door, fearful eyes look at you, to the heavy shotgun in your hands. You know the blood you have on you, the people you've killed out of fear with this very same shotgun. You sigh heavily as you tilt your head towards the bathroom, “c'mon. You want that shit outta your face?’
You don't care for names, you cant afford to care. Not in a time like this. The boy looks at you, eyes distant and blank. Well you cant hold the damn door open all night. You grab his arm and yank him inside, shotgun on your shoulder as you drag this disfigured boy to your bathroom. Its an ugly old thing, mold covers the ceiling. At least the stench of the body that laid to rot in the bathtub is gone. The women and her.. husband. Were in here a couple nights ago, her husbands body lay rotting in the very same tub you sit on the edge of. She cleaned the stench out before she left, you told her she could stay but. You don't force people to stay here, you aren't that much of a monster.
The boy startles at the manhandling, his tearful eyes widen in pain at being forced to sit on the toilet, its not like you have any other choice. He wanted to stay outside to rot, just like the skin around his mouth, puffy with infection. You cringe at the pus surrounding his mouth, its infected alright. Strange noises come from his mouth as you get up and dig through for the small, almost useless first aid kit. A couple bandages, Neosporin, Tylenol, an old pair of scissors. ‘Fuck…” you mutter to yourself. “Looks like this is what we got. You can keep those wires in your mouth or i can cut them out.” you hold the scissors up. Recognition dawns across his face, curiously enough like he couldn’t understand till you showed him the scissors. Huh. Interesting.
“Mmmhhhppphh!!! Mmmmhhpphh!” you look at him blankly, tiredly, “you know i cant understand that shit, nod your head yes or no.” The boys eyes stay blank as he looks at you before closing them in preparation. Yes then. You look at his mouth at you get closer, its completely mangled and infected. Wow how long has this guy been wondering around with this in his face? Who knows, who cares. You cant afford to care. Your mind detaches from the situation at hand as you slowly cut into the boys face, as gently as you can cutting into the wires. A whimper sounds from the boy every time you have to tug on his stitches. Hes taking it surprisingly well considering how infected his mouth is. Blood seeps from the wounds as you pull each stitch out, pus seeps harder. You think of all the bodies youve had to take out, the blood youve cleaned from your floors. Somehow this is worse. Your hands are soaked with it, the boys clothes stained with it.
Finally pulling the last stitch out, its long, the boy lets out a small cry. “You did good.” you don't know why you said that. He cried the whole time, but the words slip from your mouth anyway. Hes still whimpering as you grab some toilet paper and put Neosporin on it, gently bringing to his mouth, cringing as he lets out a sob. You awkwardly pat his shoulder as you pat his mouth, blood and pus soaking it. You had to go back for round two, making him sob harder. “I'm sorry,” you mumble out, “you're gonna feel better, if you make it a couple more days.”