Maya

Panic engulfs me as I sprint across the rickety wooden bridge, my heart pounding against my ribcage like a war drum. The tires of my car screech to a halt, and every rational thought evaporates—there's a man sprawled near the water's edge, and he’s fighting for his life. My breath comes in jagged gasps as dread coils tightly in my stomach, twisting like a vise.

As I close the distance, the sight plunges a knife into my gut—his torso is a canvas of despair, deep, seeping wounds marring his skin, tattoos swirling like tortured souls. A gaping hole in his abdomen spills crimson onto the grass, pooling around him; it paints a horrific picture that turns my stomach.

“Sir?” I shout, my voice cracking, strained with fear and urgency, but deep down, I know he can’t hear me. My entire universe condenses to the rhythm of his labored breathing—slow, ragged, each gasp a desperate plea for survival that resonates deeper than my frantic heartbeat. I press my trembling fingers against his neck, praying for any sign of life. There it is—a faint flutter, a flicker of hope in this nightmare.

My hands shake uncontrollably as I pull my phone from my back pocket, its light blinding under the weight of my panic. I dial 911, urgency surging through me, drowning out my fears. But just as I’m about to hit send, a powerful grip seizes my wrist, jolting me from my frantic thoughts.

“Don’t call the cops,” he rasps, blood oozing from his lips, trailing down his chin like a sinister warning. His eyes, wide and pleading, are pools of desperation and raw vulnerability. They silently scream at me to remain silent, as if uttering the wrong words could summon greater horrors from the shadows encroaching upon us.

In that moment, an invisible tether binds me to him—a shared understanding that transcends our circumstances. Fear intertwines with an urgency to act, to not only be a witness to his suffering but to fight alongside him in this dark battle for survival.

I take another look at him, heart racing as the gravity of his injuries sinks in—his blood seeps into the earth, dark and relentless, painting a grim picture of his condition. Every gash tells a story of brutality, and I’m paralyzed by the reality that I can't save him. I’m just a newly minted nurse, fresh out of training, with no experience for handling wounds like these in this unforgiving environment.

As he coughs violently, his body wracked with pain, I can feel the weight of his suffering crashing over me like a tidal wave. The realization hits hard: this isn’t just bad; it's life-threatening. He’s fighting a battle I can’t hope to win alone, and my gut churns with a desperation I’ve never known.

“I have to call paramedics,” I insist, urgency clawing at my throat. “They can get you to a hospital—it’s your only chance.” I lean closer, scanning the shadows around us, knowing those men who left him here—those monsters—could return any moment, ready to finish what they started.

“No,” he gasps, fingers tightening around my wrist with a strength that belies his injuries. There’s a desperation in his eyes, a plea that sends chills down my spine.

“I’m a nurse, but I’m not equipped for this!” I blur out the words, breathless and frantic. “If you don’t go to the hospital, you’re going to die out here—please, let me help you!” Each word is laced with terror, the sound of sirens echoing in my head, mingling with the lurking danger in the dark.

He gagged, his breath hitching painfully as desperation clawed at his throat. Panic consumed me—if I didn’t act fast, his lungs would fill, and he would drown in his own blood. An idea sparked amidst the chaos. I sprinted to my car, heart racing, fumbling through the darkness until my fingers closed around a pen.

With a surge of adrenaline, I ripped apart its interior, taking a deep breath to steel myself against the fear gnawing at my gut. My hands shook but I gripped the glove box, uncovering my pocketknife, sharp and glinting like a beacon of hope. He was slipping away, and time was running out.

I dashed back to him, every second stretching painfully. I tore at his shirt, the fabric ripping easily in my frantic urgency. The wound was worse than I had feared; his lungs were filling rapidly, and I had to act decisively.

Instructors had taught us about pressure release in class, but this was nothing like that sterile environment. My fingers brushed over the outline of his tattoo—a wave, intricate and sparkling—the spot where I needed to carve my path to salvation.

“This is going to hurt like hell,” I warned, my voice steady despite the storm raging in my chest. His eyes, wide with understanding, glimmered in the dim light. He nodded, bracing himself.

With a swift motion, I pressed the blade into his flesh, feeling the visceral resistance before it broke through. Blood surged from the wound, a crimson river, and he screamed—a raw sound that echoed in the night as I plunged the pen deep into his lower left lung.

Finally, liberation came as the blood flowed freely, and I could see life returning to his eyes. I gently turned him over, cradling his head as he gasped for air, each breath ragged yet desperate- a fish flung from the depths, fighting to survive.

His eyes fluttered shut for a heartbeat, and my pulse thundered in my ears as I reached out, tapping him gently, desperate to feel any sign of life. When those hazel eyes opened again, they glimmered with that familiar spark—but it was fleeting, snuffed out by the sudden glare of headlights slicing through the darkness, illuminating the riverbank. A chill of dread coiled my stomach.

I couldn’t take him to a hospital. Not now. My chaotic job would lead to too many questions I couldn’t answer without unraveling everything. What would happen to him if I did?

Panic surged as I fought to control my thoughts. There was no other choice; he was coming home with me. And not in a good way. Usually, I’d have a plan—my water running, food in the fridge, a semblance of normalcy. But now? Everything felt like a fraying rope ready to snap.

I jumped to my feet, heart pounding, careful not to aggravate the incision I’d made. Dragging his dead weight was a nightmare; he felt like a boulder, and I stumbled repeatedly, almost losing my grip. My muscles screamed in protest as I finally managed to haul him into the back seat of my car. Gritting my teeth, I might have pulled something in my back, but adrenaline pushed me forward.

Just as I slid into the driver’s seat, a pair of headlights loomed in the rearview mirror, and I barely masked my panic, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. The engine roared to life, and I drove away from the park, heart thundering like a war drum, each beat echoing the dread that threatened to swallow me whole.

What was I going to do with this massive man in my apartment?

Was he a criminal?

God, what had I gotten myself into?