from a long line of rabble rousers. Malachi hated confrontation, but he just couldn’t stand idly by and watch injustice take place right before his eyes.
The car sped off down the road, leaving a trail of dust in its wake. Malachi stashed the gun in the back of his jean’s waistband, kicked some beer and spray paint cans out of the way and went to help the kid up off the ground. As he extended his hand to help him, there was a hint of recognition in the face. It was tough to make out at first. But, through the cuts and blood, he realized that it was Travis.
“What the hell, son! Travis, is that you?”
Travis tried to nod as he spit out a mouthful of blood into the dirt.
“Dear Lord, come on. Let’s get you to the truck.”
Malachi got him settled into the passenger seat and drove quickly back to the old mill. Pulling directly up to the front door, he helped Travis inside and led him to his small kitchen in the back of the building. Travis grabbed some napkins and leaned his head back, trying to stop his nose from bleeding, while Malachi frantically searched for his first-aid kit.
He was no nurse, but living out here on his own had given him plenty of opportunity to practice his backwoods medical skills. Opening his homemade medical kit, he went straight to work. It was difficult to assess where to begin. Travis’s face was nothing short of a mess.
Travis winced as Malachi rubbed the wounds with disinfectant pads.
“I know it hurts, son. But, we’ve got to get you cleaned up. Hang in there.”
Malachi cleaned the wounds as best he could. Then it was time to inspect the damage thoroughly and see just how bad it really was. Malachi tugged gently at the skin to see how deep the gashes were. With every little movement they began to bleed profusely, forcing Malachi to hold pressure on them which made Travis squirm in his seat in pain.
Looking over the top of his glasses, Malachi apologized. “I’m sorry to hurt you, son. You definitely could use a few stitches. These cuts are pretty deep. I can butterfly the wounds, but it probably won’t hold. Or, I can stitch you up myself, but I’m not gonna lie to you, it will hurt.”
Travis nodded and said, “You do it.” Even though he was in an incredible amount of pain, he never once complained.
Malachi held ice on the skin around the cuts, trying to numb it the best he could. He knew that it wouldn’t kill all the pain, but it might take the edge off and make it tolerable. He’d never stitched anyone else up before and did his best to be as gentle as possible. With his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose, he went to work. He didn’t try to talk to the teenager while he tended to him. The lacerations were fairly deep and gaping open. There was a hefty gash above his right eyebrow and his left cheek was sliced along the cheekbone.
It was a struggle for Malachi to force the edges of the swollen cuts together enough so that he could even attempt to stitch them. He ran the needle and thread under a stream of vodka for sterilization. Travis grimaced in pain and panted every time the needle pierced through his tender skin. Clutching the arms of his chair, he held on so tightly that his fingers went pale. The wounds bled profusely with every stitch that Malachi pulled through his flesh. He tried to be as gentle as he could, but that could only go so far.
Malachi dabbed a cotton ball saturated with vodka on the cuts to stop the bleeding and to keep it sterilized. The alcohol burned and an occasional tear trailed down Travis’s cheek. He was trying to be so brave, but it hurt worse than anything he’d ever experienced.
Over the years, Malachi had been brave enough to stitch himself up a few times, when need be. He knew that it was torture. Usually he would down a couple shots of vodka first to take the edge off the pain. Travis was enduring this cold turkey. He really must have a high pain tolerance, or maybe he was just used to suffering.
After five
The car sped off down the road, leaving a trail of dust in its wake. Malachi stashed the gun in the back of his jean’s waistband, kicked some beer and spray paint cans out of the way and went to help the kid up off the ground. As he extended his hand to help him, there was a hint of recognition in the face. It was tough to make out at first. But, through the cuts and blood, he realized that it was Travis.
“What the hell, son! Travis, is that you?”
Travis tried to nod as he spit out a mouthful of blood into the dirt.
“Dear Lord, come on. Let’s get you to the truck.”
Malachi got him settled into the passenger seat and drove quickly back to the old mill. Pulling directly up to the front door, he helped Travis inside and led him to his small kitchen in the back of the building. Travis grabbed some napkins and leaned his head back, trying to stop his nose from bleeding, while Malachi frantically searched for his first-aid kit.
He was no nurse, but living out here on his own had given him plenty of opportunity to practice his backwoods medical skills. Opening his homemade medical kit, he went straight to work. It was difficult to assess where to begin. Travis’s face was nothing short of a mess.
Travis winced as Malachi rubbed the wounds with disinfectant pads.
“I know it hurts, son. But, we’ve got to get you cleaned up. Hang in there.”
Malachi cleaned the wounds as best he could. Then it was time to inspect the damage thoroughly and see just how bad it really was. Malachi tugged gently at the skin to see how deep the gashes were. With every little movement they began to bleed profusely, forcing Malachi to hold pressure on them which made Travis squirm in his seat in pain.
Looking over the top of his glasses, Malachi apologized. “I’m sorry to hurt you, son. You definitely could use a few stitches. These cuts are pretty deep. I can butterfly the wounds, but it probably won’t hold. Or, I can stitch you up myself, but I’m not gonna lie to you, it will hurt.”
Travis nodded and said, “You do it.” Even though he was in an incredible amount of pain, he never once complained.
Malachi held ice on the skin around the cuts, trying to numb it the best he could. He knew that it wouldn’t kill all the pain, but it might take the edge off and make it tolerable. He’d never stitched anyone else up before and did his best to be as gentle as possible. With his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose, he went to work. He didn’t try to talk to the teenager while he tended to him. The lacerations were fairly deep and gaping open. There was a hefty gash above his right eyebrow and his left cheek was sliced along the cheekbone.
It was a struggle for Malachi to force the edges of the swollen cuts together enough so that he could even attempt to stitch them. He ran the needle and thread under a stream of vodka for sterilization. Travis grimaced in pain and panted every time the needle pierced through his tender skin. Clutching the arms of his chair, he held on so tightly that his fingers went pale. The wounds bled profusely with every stitch that Malachi pulled through his flesh. He tried to be as gentle as he could, but that could only go so far.
Malachi dabbed a cotton ball saturated with vodka on the cuts to stop the bleeding and to keep it sterilized. The alcohol burned and an occasional tear trailed down Travis’s cheek. He was trying to be so brave, but it hurt worse than anything he’d ever experienced.
Over the years, Malachi had been brave enough to stitch himself up a few times, when need be. He knew that it was torture. Usually he would down a couple shots of vodka first to take the edge off the pain. Travis was enduring this cold turkey. He really must have a high pain tolerance, or maybe he was just used to suffering.
After five
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