Maya

I slammed the accelerator, tearing out of the park where I had found the stranger. He lay twisted in the back seat, a wound gushing blood that seeped into my upholstery like a sin I couldn’t wash away.

What am I doing?

My thoughts screamed at me to ditch him, but my heart betrayed me, urging me to save him. The conflict roiled inside me, a tempest of fear and desperation. I glanced in the rearview mirror—nothing but empty road. The car that had once pursued us was just a fading memory, vanishing around the bend as I peeled out of that hellish place.

I took a shuddering breath and veered onto the main road, gravel crunching under tires that protested against my frantic escape. My heart thundered in my chest, a manic drumbeat that matched the chaos in my mind. Adrenaline surged through me as my hands trembled on the steering wheel, coated in red—a visceral testament to my choices, to the blood that now stained my scrubs.

My breath came in jagged gasps, each inhale a reminder of the gravity of my actions. I stole a glance behind me. The stranger remained sprawled, still and silent, his wound bleeding steadily. Panic twisted in my stomach. Would he survive this? Had I made a grave error by bringing him with me? The stakes were rising, and with every passing moment, I felt the noose of consequence tightening around my neck.

I came to a screeching halt at the red light, my trembling hands falling limply into my lap. The world around me blurred, the silence pressing in like a weight on my chest. My eyes darted through the dimly lit streets, void of life; the stillness was suffocating. It was late—my phone glowed ominously, illuminating the time: twelve-thirty.

As I pulled into my designated parking spot at the complex, a wave of relief washed over me for being on the ground floor, but it was mingled with a gnawing anxiety. I turned off the engine and let out a shaky breath, straining to hear the faint rhythm of the man’s breaths behind me. Each exhale felt like a fragile thread tethering us to hope.

The complex loomed around me, a ghost town cloaked in shadows. Tall trees danced eerily in the cool night breeze, their rustling leaves whispering secrets of despair. A few stray cats prowled aimlessly around parked cars, their watchful eyes mirroring my own anxiety, but there wasn’t a single soul in sight.

With adrenaline coursing through my veins, I threw open my car door and stumbled out, urgency pushing me forward. I took several deep breaths, each inhalation a desperate plea for courage. My heart hammered loudly in my chest as I steeled myself, knowing what lay ahead. I opened the back door, dread pooling in my stomach as I faced the man lying there, vulnerable and silent. Would he be alright? The fear of what I might find sent shivers down my spine, but I couldn't turn back now.

I struggled to pull him from the car, his weight a dead weight that dragged me down. As I let his legs slump onto the sidewalk, a jolt of pain shot through my back—a cruel reminder of the burden I was carrying. I grunted, each strain echoing the fear pounding in my chest, forcing myself forward until we reached my front door. With my knee pressed against his side, I fumbled for the keys, heart racing like a drum in my ears as I fought to keep him upright.

Finally, the lock clicked open, and we tumbled into the apartment, a cacophony of chaos following us. He hit the floor first, and I fell beside him, panic gripping me like a vise. My hands trembling, I hurriedly inspected the wound I had inflicted—my breath caught in my throat at the sight. Blood oozed steadily, a crimson river flowing from his side, yet the pen I had driven into him remained lodged there, grotesque and unyielding.

A shudder of relief coursed through me, but it was quickly overshadowed by dread. I exhaled sharply, a rush of air laden with anguish escaping my lips as I kicked the door shut behind us with a resounding thud. In that moment, the gravity of our situation crashed down on me, the walls closing in. I couldn’t falter; I wouldn’t let him bleed out on my floor, not when every heartbeat felt like a silent plea for survival.

I settled onto the cold linoleum, my heart pounding as I locked my gaze on his battered body. Every inch of him told a story, each tattoo a chapter of pain and survival. The bold double DD letters sprawled across his knuckles caught my eye first, a stark contrast against the bruises and blood. A tree, strong yet fragile, adorned his left forearm, whispering secrets of resilience, while the wave-like patterns on his ribcage danced dangerously close to his deep, ragged wound. But it was the quote etched on his right forearm that pulled at my heartstrings, resonating with a familiar ache: “This too shall pass.”

Yes, I thought, even strangers like us—you’ll get through this.

I rose abruptly, urgency fueling my movements as I hurried to the kitchen. I took a deep breath, steadying myself before reaching for the faucet, half-expecting disappointment. But then, to my astonishment, water burst forth, a cascade that felt like a blessing from the universe. My heart soared.

I could finally cleanse this blood, wash away the remnants of his suffering. A flicker of hope ignited within me, and a small smile graced my lips as I approached the washer. But just before stepping away, I cast one last, penetrating glance at the stranger. I studied him—his face, the pain etched into his features, the stories behind his tattoos—and in that moment, it struck me: our lives were woven together by fate, tangled in threads of struggle and survival.

He was undeniably handsome, an allure that tugged at my senses. I had initially thought his head was shaved, but the truth was far more captivating: his dark hair was slicked back with meticulous precision, gleaming like polished mahogany under the dim lighting. His skin glowed with a bronze hue, a striking contrast to the shadowy corners of the room, and despite the chaos that had unfolded, he looked almost ethereal.

I turned away, feeling an urgent rush as I tore off the blood-stained scrubs. The fabric clung to me, a grim reminder of what had transpired. As I poured laundry soap into the washer, I could hear my mother’s voice echoing in my mind, her insistence on using cold water and stain remover ringing true. “No trace of this moment should linger,” she would say.

I rolled my eyes, trying to shake off the weight of nostalgia, but it only deepened my resolve. With heavy footsteps, I stormed into my bedroom, casting a quick glance back to ensure the stranger remained unconscious, that he was not awake to scrutinize my exposed form. The vulnerability of the moment pressed down on me, a mix of fear and adrenaline swirling within. In that fleeting second, I wrestled with my own emotions—caught between the desire to escape and the undeniable pull of our shared fate.

I slid a spaghetti strap top over my skin, the fabric feeling like a barrier between me and the chaos about to unfold. Drowning in uncertainty, I pulled on some shorts and steeled myself. The stranger lay unconscious on the floor, a stillness about him that was both haunting and serene. I knew this was going to be one of the hardest moments of my life.

Digging into my medical supply closet, I pulled out my gloves, stitching kit, and a scalpel—my only allies in this desperate fight against fate. My heart raced as I gathered supplies: tweezers for precision, a box of gauze, and a bottle of alcohol to cleanse his wounds. Each item felt heavy in my hands, laden with the weight of what was at stake.

Yanking a sheet off the dryer, I spread it over the couch like a makeshift altar, preparing a sacred space for this battle. The bullet lodged in his abdomen was a ticking time bomb, and I needed him to wake up. The seconds marched on, each one a reminder of the fragility of life.

I knelt beside him, my bag resting inches away, its contents whispering promises of salvation. As I watched his chest rise and fall, the rhythm steady yet fragile, I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. Relief flooded through me momentarily, but dread gnawed at the edges of my mind—what if he didn’t wake up? What if he did, and terror twisted his features upon realizing who I was?

This was my choice, my moment to pull him back from the brink. I had to believe in the impossible, to stitch not only his wounds but the unseen scars that bound us together in this twisted fate. He might never understand the depths of my struggle, the sacrifices I had made in silence, but he would live. I was determined to ensure that—and every fiber of my being braced for the storm that lay ahead.

The pain will be excruciating; I can only imagine. I pushed my supplies out into a neat pile, each item a reminder of the urgency thrumming in my veins. With a deep breath, I leaned over the stranger, my heart pounding like a war drum. His pockets were bulky, filled with secrets, and my curiosity got the better of me. I slipped my hand into the depths of his pants, feeling the weight of his life pressing against my fingertips.

With a racing heart, I fished out a phone, a wallet, and those unmistakable motorcycle keys—cold metal that rattled with the echoes of what could have been. The phone lay lifeless, its screen dark and unyielding. I knew I shouldn’t pry into his world, so I discarded it, the thud resonating in the silence like a missed chance lingering in the air.

But then my fingers found the worn leather of his wallet. It was a relic of a life lived—faded and creased from years of handling, it held a pulse, an essence that drew me in. I hesitated, breath hitching in my throat, before opening it. Inside lay his identification—a gateway into his very soul.

In that agonizing moment, I realized I wasn't just fighting for his survival. I was grappling with the crushing weight of our entwined destinies. Every detail I uncovered felt like a fragile thread, binding us together in this fleeting moment. He had to live; for both our sakes, this could not be where our story ended.

I finally uncovered the identity of the stranger I had saved—his name was Armando Romos. Twenty-eight years old, living here in Arizona. As I gazed at his photo, a bittersweet smile tugged at my lips, and I carefully returned it to the worn leather wallet I had set on the floor beside him.

But now came the hardest part: the moment that would either seal his fate or offer him a chance at life. My heart raced as I reminded myself of my lack of experience with surgery; I had only gleaned bits of knowledge from class. It felt like stepping into a storm without an umbrella.

As I stood over him, I noticed the subtle movements of his eyelids were conscious, but lost in a fog of unconsciousness. Gathering every ounce of strength within me, I bent down, wrapping my hands around his arms, and began to drag him toward the couch. The weight of his body was a heavy reminder of the stakes I was facing.

With a deep breath, I summoned all the willpower I could muster, lifting him with painstaking care and tucking him onto the couch. The struggle left me breathless, a mix of dread and determination coursing through my veins. Lifting this man day after day was going to push me to my limits, forcing me back into shape—no gym required.

But in that moment, none of that mattered. All that existed was the fragility of life hanging in the balance and the flicker of hope igniting within the depths of despair. I couldn’t fail him. Not now.

“What are you doing?” His voice was barely a whisper, cracking through the air like shattered glass.

It jolted me, yanked me from my frantic thoughts. I looked into his hazel eyes—clouded and distant, yet filled with a flicker of desperation. Blood matted his chin, dark and viscous, leaving a gruesome trail down his neck. My heart raced at the sight; I could feel panic creeping in like a shadow threatening to engulf me.

“I have to get the bullet out,” I gasped, each word tumbling out in a rush, heavy with dread. “It’s lodged in your stomach.”

Terror gripped me, an icy fist tightening around my chest. What if I made a mistake? What if I cut too deep, severed something vital, and he bled out right there on the floor? The weight of responsibility crashed over me, almost suffocating.

He fixated on me, those once-vibrant eyes now dulling, before slipping into unconsciousness, leaving me alone with my fears. Time was running out, and with every second, I could feel the warmth of his life slipping away.

I drew a deep breath, the smell of iron thick in the air as I pulled on the gloves, the latex feeling foreign against my trembling hands. My fingers shook as I reached for the scalpel, the blade glinting ominously in the dim light. His blood pooled around the navel, a stark reminder of the urgency of my task.

I could either carefully cut around the organ and hope to find the bullet nestled inside or, maybe—just maybe—my luck would hold, and I’d glimpse it without digging deeper. The thought of a lifeless body in my living room sent a fresh wave of panic crashing over me. I needed him to survive. Not just for him, but for me—because failure was not an option.

As I steeled myself for what lay ahead, I could feel the flicker of hope igniting within the storm of despair. He was still here, still fighting. And so would I.

I exhaled sharply, leaning over him as the fan’s light cast a haunting shadow across my face. My heart raced as I pressed down, slicing open his skin, watching in horror as fresh blood pooled beneath us. I couldn't take him to the hospital now; time had slipped away from us—too late for him, too late for me.

Despair clawed at my insides while my hands hesitated, trembling as I delved into his abdomen. Every fleeting glance at Armando pushed me forward; he was still unconscious, yet his breath was a fragile thread holding us together. Then, without warning, the floodgates opened—a crimson torrent spilling onto my leg, a stark reminder of how precarious our situation truly was.

But then, there it was—a glimmer of hope in the chaos. The bullet floated ominously near his liver, and for a fleeting moment, relief washed over me. It was a miracle in this nightmare; surely, this was a chance we couldn’t afford to squander. I fought to suppress the exhilaration bubbling within me, scanning for any signs of damage. Nothing that a few stitches wouldn’t fix, I told myself, desperately clinging to that thought.

With determination coursing through my veins, I held my breath and set to work, tying and stitching his skin back together with shaky but resolute hands. Each pull of the thread felt like an act of defiance against fate, a testament to my refusal to let him slip away. I wrapped the gauze tightly around his abdomen, each layer binding us closer together in this fight for survival. I would not let fear claim him. I would not let him go without a battle.

My heart raced as I sat there, staring at him, his life hanging by a thread—my arms slick with his blood, a grim reminder of what had just transpired. But he was alive. My first real experience as a nurse had ignited something fierce within me, filling me with a newfound ferocity. I had the power to save lives. If I could do this, then surely I could conquer anything.

I snatched a blanket from the back of the couch, wrapping it around him with trembling hands, checking his temperature with a growing sense of urgency. It was slightly elevated, but nothing that set off alarm bells. Relief mingled with anxiety as I fought against the tide of uncertainty threatening to pull me under.

I stumbled into my bedroom and confronted my reflection, a mixture of exhaustion and determination etched on my face. I was better than Barbra. She may have taken my job, but she would never possess the resilience and courage I had just summoned. I had transformed from a bystander to a warrior in this fight for life.

Turning on the shower, I let the water wash over me, the warm cascade drowning out the chaos of the world outside. As the rivulets of crimson swirled away down the drain, I imagined all the fear and doubt spiraling with them, vanishing into nothingness.

But beneath it all, one desperate thought anchored me: I needed Armando to wake up tomorrow. I had saved his life, but the battle was far from over. Would it be enough? Only time would tell.