trying to assess the damage, but I can’t find the arrow. I look at my fingers, and they’re red. Well, not really red, more a reddish pink, and they smell like strawberries—except for my palms where shards entered my skin. Oh my God, there’s no blood on my chest, I think, feeling just an ounce of relief. I can’t believe that asshole stabbed me. Well… Did he stab me? I’m not wounded—I don’t understand… What’s happening?
I look around, panicked, wondering why no one is helping me. Everyone seems to be absorbed in their own discussion, ignoring my pain.
“Look at that mess,” I hear Old Peter grumble. “Cal, come on, wake the fuck up!”
“I’m coming,” I hear Cal call back from afar. He doesn’t seem alarmed by the situation either, which is something I don’t understand. Why is no one reacting normally?
I try to get up, and it’s not without difficulty. The pain in my chest recedes quickly, to my surprise, while the one in my knees and palms flares up.
“Hey Jared!” I hear Old Peter call.
Stop calling me that.
Wh— What? I fall back loudly on my tushy. I stare at Old P— at the bar owner, dumbfounded. I thought he had told me to stop comparing him to Peter Dinklage, but he is talking to… Oh my God , to the sexy guy from earlier. I look around but no one is paying attention to me, and I wonder who I just heard. It’s nothing, it’s probably shock, or maybe just a weird coincidence.
Cal arrives by my side, grabs my arm and pulls me up. I feel both anxious and stupid… did I cause a scene about something I imagined? There are multiple glass shards implanted in my hands and legs where I touched the floor, but no open wound on my chest. Is this the beginning of some sort of mental illness?
Cal makes a what-a-mess face and tsks, as he steers me into an office room behind the bar to sit on an armchair. “This doesn’t look good,” he says, eyeing my left knee. “You’re going to need medical assistance to get all the glass out of the wound. I’m going to call the—“
“Nah, no need,” interrupts Old Peter Dinklage, entering the room with Jared and shooing Cal away absent-mindedly before I can thank him. “Jared here is a medical student, he is going to take care of Blondie.”
“Hello,” says Jared, his deep voice exactly how I imagined it would be. As he kneels in front of me, I notice his eyes are a rich earthy brown, with dark green specks and a black rim around the pupil.
I have a hard time thinking straight. Is it me or does he have the most wonderful scent in the world? I can smell it from where I am, despite the stench of the cocktail on my clothes. It’s not something you can find bottled—it’s manly, powerful, yet simple and clean. Like a breath of fresh air in a mountain forest.
“Are you okay, miss?” says Jared, a look of concern on his face. I blurt out a yes , when I realize I haven’t spoken a word since I was stabbed. Well, I have no stab wound, so… Did I dream all this? I know I did fall and cut myself on the stupid glass, though.
Cal’s back with the bar’s emergency kit. It’s bright pink, with glitter on it—I’m caught unaware by the absurd randomness of it, and I laugh out loud. No one else seems to find it amusing, though. They all look at me with concern.
“I’m going to clean these wounds,” says Jared. “It’s probably nothing, but you might want a doctor to look at them soon. You may need a tetanus shot, unless you’re current. Do you know the last time you had one?”
I shake my head. I can’t remember for the life of me if I’ve ever had one. Those eyes… I’m hypnotized.
He takes out a pair of tweezers from the kit, some sort of metallic bowl, small pads of gauze that he douses in antiseptics, and a pair of plastic gloves.
“Okay, I’m out. Call Cal if you need something. I fucking hate blood, makes me sick,” says Old Peter Dinklage.
“I’m good, you can go,” answers Jared.
“By the way, my
I look around, panicked, wondering why no one is helping me. Everyone seems to be absorbed in their own discussion, ignoring my pain.
“Look at that mess,” I hear Old Peter grumble. “Cal, come on, wake the fuck up!”
“I’m coming,” I hear Cal call back from afar. He doesn’t seem alarmed by the situation either, which is something I don’t understand. Why is no one reacting normally?
I try to get up, and it’s not without difficulty. The pain in my chest recedes quickly, to my surprise, while the one in my knees and palms flares up.
“Hey Jared!” I hear Old Peter call.
Stop calling me that.
Wh— What? I fall back loudly on my tushy. I stare at Old P— at the bar owner, dumbfounded. I thought he had told me to stop comparing him to Peter Dinklage, but he is talking to… Oh my God , to the sexy guy from earlier. I look around but no one is paying attention to me, and I wonder who I just heard. It’s nothing, it’s probably shock, or maybe just a weird coincidence.
Cal arrives by my side, grabs my arm and pulls me up. I feel both anxious and stupid… did I cause a scene about something I imagined? There are multiple glass shards implanted in my hands and legs where I touched the floor, but no open wound on my chest. Is this the beginning of some sort of mental illness?
Cal makes a what-a-mess face and tsks, as he steers me into an office room behind the bar to sit on an armchair. “This doesn’t look good,” he says, eyeing my left knee. “You’re going to need medical assistance to get all the glass out of the wound. I’m going to call the—“
“Nah, no need,” interrupts Old Peter Dinklage, entering the room with Jared and shooing Cal away absent-mindedly before I can thank him. “Jared here is a medical student, he is going to take care of Blondie.”
“Hello,” says Jared, his deep voice exactly how I imagined it would be. As he kneels in front of me, I notice his eyes are a rich earthy brown, with dark green specks and a black rim around the pupil.
I have a hard time thinking straight. Is it me or does he have the most wonderful scent in the world? I can smell it from where I am, despite the stench of the cocktail on my clothes. It’s not something you can find bottled—it’s manly, powerful, yet simple and clean. Like a breath of fresh air in a mountain forest.
“Are you okay, miss?” says Jared, a look of concern on his face. I blurt out a yes , when I realize I haven’t spoken a word since I was stabbed. Well, I have no stab wound, so… Did I dream all this? I know I did fall and cut myself on the stupid glass, though.
Cal’s back with the bar’s emergency kit. It’s bright pink, with glitter on it—I’m caught unaware by the absurd randomness of it, and I laugh out loud. No one else seems to find it amusing, though. They all look at me with concern.
“I’m going to clean these wounds,” says Jared. “It’s probably nothing, but you might want a doctor to look at them soon. You may need a tetanus shot, unless you’re current. Do you know the last time you had one?”
I shake my head. I can’t remember for the life of me if I’ve ever had one. Those eyes… I’m hypnotized.
He takes out a pair of tweezers from the kit, some sort of metallic bowl, small pads of gauze that he douses in antiseptics, and a pair of plastic gloves.
“Okay, I’m out. Call Cal if you need something. I fucking hate blood, makes me sick,” says Old Peter Dinklage.
“I’m good, you can go,” answers Jared.
“By the way, my
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