Chapter 6

I can't move.

The creature's advancing fast, claw raised to strike the other side of my face. My legs aren't listening to my brain. They're rooted to the ground. My hand reaches for the hilt of my knife but it's nowhere to be found. Blood's still dripping from my eye.

I see the glint of its claws under the moonlight, poised to strike. Sharp knives digging into the other side of my face. And then my chest, blood spilling out from the wounds and dripping to the ground as my legs give out under me. I can barely breathe, the blood from my face flowing into my mouth and down my throat as I try to cough it up, but only more blood comes out.

Everything's blurry now, my vision a red haze of pain. I blink the blood out of my eyes, only to be met with the creature standing above me, claws to my throat. I can't even squirm under the weight of the animal.

My vision slowly starts to fade as the pain at the side of my face intensifies.

I'm gonna die. That's totally fine.

Humor isn't exactly working out right now. I feel the sharp claws press against my throat, and the intensity of my coughs increase as I try desperately to breathe and calm my nerves.

The creature raises its claws to strike, and all I can do is watch as its claws descend to my throat and slice through it like a knife through butter. I want to scream, but it's muffled by the blood in my mouth.

That's when I wake up on the bed of my empty apartment, coughing violently, my hand instinctively shooting up to the left side of my face where I still feel the claw marks indented into my skin. My heart pounds wildly in my chest as I frantically scan the area for signs of any movement in the darkness of my apartment. My chest rises and falls rapidly as I try to regain control of my breathing. My hands now grip the bed tightly, almost as if it could protect me from any danger.

Bed is safe.

My breathing steadies slightly so that I'm not gasping for air anymore, but my hands are trembling, clutching onto the sheets of the bed for dear life.

I press a hand to my forehead. It's sticky and warm. My breath hitches in my throat as I remove my hand from my forehead and put it to eye level. My eye scans for any signs of the sticky red liquid that makes my stomach sick, but there's no trace of it. I lay my head back against the pillow again, and stare up at the ceiling, its white paint coat slowly peeling off of it.

It reminds me of how the skin on Mayday's back was peeling off after he got whipped. I feel a lump start to rise in my throat when I think about it.

It's unfair. He got punished and I didn't. When he told me about it, I could tell that he did something to get me out of punishment. I've known him long enough to know.

I can almost see the blood oozing out of Mayday's wounds, the angry red skin surrounding the deep gashes in his back, the way he winced when I put the bandages there. It must've hurt.

I am grateful to Mayday for getting me out of punishment, who wouldn't? No one wants to get whipped on the back like that. But maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if I was right beside him, taking the same punishment. Maybe he wouldn't have that dead look in his eyes that I saw yesterday.

I just want to hug him, to comfort him, to tell him that everything is going to be okay. He doesn't deserve what he got.

After a few minutes of overthinking, I snap back to reality and get out of bed. There's some noise coming from the streets below, but not a lot. I assume it's about 6 or 7 in the morning from the amount of people downstairs.

I head over to Mayday's apartment with a roll of fresh bandages. I knock on the door.

"The door's unlocked." I hear a muffled voice from inside. I open the door to see Mayday lying on the couch on his stomach. When he hears my footsteps, he looks up at me with those eyes that have been haunting me all night.

I sit down next to him.

"Sit up," I pat his shoulder gently.

Mayday shakes his head, his face pressed against the sofa.

"I said sit up." I pull him by the shoulders and force him to sit up. "Now take off your goddamn shirt so I can rebandage those f*****g wounds."

Mayday groans. "Fine." He takes off his shirt, his back facing me so that the bandages that I put on him yesterday are visible. They're soaked through with blood, staining them a dark crimson.

I inhale sharply through my teeth.

"What?" Mayday asks, annoyed.

"It doesn't look good," I reply as I start unravelling the bandages around his torso, revealing the cuts on his back.

I cringe at the sight of it. There's some patches of dried blood clumped together, but there's blood all over his back. There's some bruising at the areas where his skin isn't cut open, and his back is swelling slightly. I always hated the sight of wounds. I can deal with death, sure, but not injuries. Those make me sick.

I hear Mayday wince as the wounds hit fresh air. Not really fresh, considering the air in the apartment isn't that well-ventilated.

"I...might have to wash that..." I tell him.

"WHAT?!" Mayday shouts, turning around to face me, but winces again at the pain in his back. It's the reaction I expected.

"If you want it to get infected, swell up even more, have pus in it, have to be taken to the hospital and pay more for treatment and maybe even surgery, go ahead," I say with a hint of sarcasm in my voice.

I head to the toilet where there's an old cloth on the sink, I assume it's one of Mayday's brothers'. I quickly wash it with water, trying to clean it as well as I can, getting most of the dirt off of it.

With the cloth still dripping wet, I head over to Mayday.

"Lie on your stomach and stay still, or I'm going to press this cloth onto your back even harder," I order. Mayday rolls his eyes but reluctantly complies with the order. I then place the wet cloth onto his back, the blood almost soaking through it immediately.

Mayday inhales sharply as a shudder runs through his back. He presses his face into the sofa to muffle his shouts of pain, but I can still hear them. I gently press the cloth down onto his back, and he starts shaking. I can hear him breathing heavily, and almost what sounds like crying, muffled by the sofa.

"Sit up," I tell him after I finish cleaning his wounds, and wrap fresh bandages around his torso to cover the cuts, which are still bleeding, but slower. I catch a glimpse of Mayday wiping a few tears from his eyes but I don't mention it to make sure he doesn't die of embarrassment.

"There. Done." I look up at him. Mayday grits his teeth. "Thanks," he says. I can hear the sarcasm in his voice. I roll my eyes and bring the cloth back to the toilet, soaking it with water and trying to squeeze the blood out from it. By the time I'm done, most of the blood from the cloth is gone and I return it to its original position on the sink.

For the next few days, I help Mayday with his wounds. They've become scabs by now and he's no longer staining the chair in his apartment with his blood. This is the fourth day I've cleaned the area around Mayday's back. It's still bruised but slightly less now, and I make sure to be careful and avoid accidentally peeling the scabs off and reopening the wounds.

As usual, Mayday takes off his shirt and lays down on the couch, his bruised back facing up. That's when I hear a knock on the door. Mayday and I both stand up and open the door ever so slightly to see who's outside. Then five bodies come crashing down on us, and we all fall to the floor in one massive pile.

It's Mayday's brothers. Great. Mayday sighs and lets himself get tackled to the floor by his brothers while I squirm my way out of the pile and head to my apartment to find my own family.

When I open the door, I see my parents and grandparents waiting at the door for me. I immediately run into their arms and hug them as tightly as I can.

"I missed you," I mumble, my arms tightening around them.

My grandfather pats my head, and my father replies, "Missed you too Potato." It's the nickname he gave me when I was younger.

After a moment, I let go of them, but they don't let go of me.

They're not usually this clingy. Something's wrong.

"What happened?" I ask.

They have a solemn look on their faces, my mother and grandparents seem to be holding back tears. While their faces may not show it, I know them too well. My father's got no tears to cry. His tear ducts were damaged from the heat on a trip outside the ray shield in the early days back in North America.

They remain silent.

I hear sobbing and crying from the apartment next to us. Mayday's apartment. It's either tears of joy, or the same tears that my family's holding back.

I've got a feeling it's not tears of joy.