I have to repeat that to myself several times, unable to process or honestly believe the situation I find myself in.
Mango sits on the arm of the couch, watching over our otherworldly visitor. I scoop him up and murmur a quiet good morning to him. I scratch him under his chin as he purrs like a motor. We both stare at the alien. What the hell was I thinking dragging in a naked, unconscious alien here?
I kneel beside him, taking in his visage in the light of a new day. His dark, charcoal skin seems to almost shimmer, reflecting the soft morning light in an ethereal glow. It’s a strange color, a gray darker than a thundercloud. But when it catches the light, it reveals hidden undertones of a gentle purple hue with an iridescent sheen.
When I was a kid, my family had a Russian blue cat named Stormy. The alien’s skin is almost the same shade of dark gray as Stormy’s.
His features, though not human, are striking. Heavily angled cheekbones lead down to a square jaw. He has the kind of jawline that would make a male model envious. My gaze dips to his mouth, which is surprisingly plush.
I can’t help but watch him in awe for a moment, struck by the sheer impossibility of his existence.
Despite the exhaustion hovering over me like a shadow, a mix of adrenaline and sheer curiosity has me replacing my weariness with a renewed sense of purpose. I set Mango on the floor, ignoring his plaintive complaining cries. Rolling up my sleeves, I gather my strength, ready to nurse the unconscious alien back to health, no matter who or what may come knocking.
I turn towards the coffee table where I had set my travel-sized first aid kit. Who would’ve thought I would need it so soon, and for this? It’s red, about the size of a lunchbox, filled with the basics: bandages, antiseptics, gloves, and such. I wish I’d grabbed my full kit which is still in my car at the mechanic’s shop. Of course, I’d leave it there, never guessing I’d be playing nurse to an injured alien in a strange cabin in the woods. As I open the kit, I grab a set of nitrile gloves, slipping them on with practiced ease. Turning back to the alien, my heart thumps loudly in my chest. “All right, buddy,” I murmur, courage rekindling in my veins, “let’s see what we’ve got here.”
Gently, I reach out and place my hand on his forehead. I hold my breath, half expecting him to be fever-hot or perhaps deathly cold, but his skin feels just as any humans would. He seems a little warm, but how can I know what normal is for his species? Worry gnaws at my mind, but his chest’s rhythmic rise and fall offers some consolation.
With a deep breath, I move to assess the rest of his injuries. Swiftly, my mind shifts gears, adopting the familiar clinical, detached viewpoint I can always rely on. At least, I try to, but it’s difficult not to notice the toned lines of his body, the cut of his biceps, and the rippled strength of his abdomen.
My fingers hover above him, not making contact yet. His chest is a wall of muscle, rising and falling in a slow, metronomic rhythm. I swallow nervously, turning my attention to his arms, trying not to linger on the powerful display before me. On his chest and arms are black feathery designs that look tattooed on his skin. Or perhaps that is his species’ natural skin patterns. Their design is almost menacing – the swirls ending in sharp dagger-like points.
Being this close, I can see the subtleties of the designs, the way they twist and twine, creating patterns within patterns. There’s a rhythm to them, a symmetry that is breathtakingly beautiful in its complexity. Each feather is different, much like a fingerprint, and I am fascinated.
Gently, I trace a fingertip along one of the feathers, watching as his skin reacts to my touch. I pull my finger away, realizing I’m behaving inappropriately with my patient.
In the quiet cabin, I continue my ministrations, taking in the sight of him. Every inch of him seems carved like a statue, an embodiment of strength and sinew. But for now, I push it all aside; he’s my patient and it’s my job to help him heal. Any thoughts of his chiseled body and intriguing tattoos are to be stored away, analyzed in another place, at another time.
Carefully, I check the edges around the splint, looking for any signs of swelling or discoloration. My hands hover over the splint, sensitive and cautious like a butterfly. An air of relief fills my lungs; the swelling has decreased significantly. I gently prod around the area, my eyes flicking from the injured area to the alien’s face, searching for any reaction. But his harsh face remains peaceful and still. Shifting my attention, I move to his ankles, a soft hum escaping me at the sight. The once engorged skin seems calmer now, less puffy. His skin is pliant and smooth under my fingertips. It still holds a darkened, discolored hue but there’s a definite improvement. That is some good news.
I head into the kitchen, open the freezer, and grab the bags of frozen peas and mixed vegetables I’ve been using as cold compresses. I bring them back to the alien.
On my return, I’m taken aback by what I see. Swathed in sunlight filtering in through a half-open window, it’s as if he’s lit from within. I would be awed to be in his presence if I wasn’t so worried and scared. But really, I’m just afraid that he’s either going to die on me or that he will attack me when he recovers.
I place one bag of frozen veggies over his ankle and the other over his splint, hoping that alien physiology works the same as humans and the cold will help with swelling.
His skin appears less ashen than it did last night. The violet-blue undertones now seem more pronounced, vivid against his dark, ethereal complexion.
He doesn’t stir when I gently pull down the blanket to check the rest of his injuries. I make sure to leave him his modesty and keep his crotch covered. Despite the craziness of last night, it was hard not to notice the monster he had between his legs. When I’d finally gotten him pulled into the living room, I’d taken time to assess his injuries in the light. While I was cleaning and bandaging him up, I’d come face to face with an enormous alien dick. I’d been so shocked that I’d stopped and stared, mouth agog, for a moment before shaking myself from my stupor and returning to work. Even just remembering that moment makes a blush heat my cheeks.
I make sure to keep that beast covered this morning – ogling a naked, vulnerable injured alien is wrong on so many levels I can’t even begin to fathom it. I shy away from even just my memories of what I saw of his naked body last night.
As I look over the gashes and bruises that decorate his torso I have to stop and stare. Weren’t they much worse just a few hours ago? Am I seeing things? I’d think I was exaggerating my memories, but I know what I saw. He’s healing at a shocking rate.
Shaking my head, I tell myself that this is good news. I turn my attention to the alien’s side. I carefully peel back a thick bandage that I had placed on the side of his abdomen, just a few inches above his hipbone. I gingerly prod at the area around what I believe to be a bullet wound, checking for seepage.
“It’s not bleeding,” I whisper, more taken aback than relieved. It was also far more healed than I would’ve expected a bullet wound to be. Maybe it wasn’t a bullet wound? No, I’m almost certain it is. I’ve certainly seen enough of them over the years.
“No signs of infection,” I add, scanning for telltale signs. There’s a certain familiarity to this, something I’ve done a thousand times. Except the patient isn’t human. Rolling him slightly, I check over the exit wound. It also looks good and is healing at an accelerated rate.
Taking a fresh bandage from my medical kit, I carefully swap out the old bandages, ensuring the wound is clean and covered. My hand trembles slightly; the alien’s ribcage and muscled abdomen are an unnerving display of raw strength.
Next, I turn my attention to what has me really worried: a similar wound on his shoulder, but this one doesn’t have a corresponding exit wound. This means that if a bullet is the culprit like I believe, it might still be lodged inside his body. A cold dread settles within me at what that implies, weighing on my heart.
Although the wound isn’t oozing blood anymore, the wound is still fresh especially compared to his other injuries, causing a frown to crease my forehead. The skin around the raw wound is slightly darker than the rest but doesn’t look infected.
My breath hitches in my chest at the uncertainty of it all. My instincts scream at me to help, but I don’t know where to begin. I’m doing my best, but I don’t know if it will be enough. Am I being an idiot trying to do this on my own? But who can I call to help? I’d call Aunt Zizi but she’s on the other side of the world and honestly, what could she tell me to do?
I sit back on my heels and stare at the alien, filled with a mix of awe and worry. I’ve never seen anyone heal as quickly as this alien appears to be. However, I have no idea what I’m truly dealing with. I don’t want to be the dumb woman in the movie who thinks she can help but makes everything worse. Or the one who aids the evil enemy like a moron.
I huff because sitting here worrying about what could happen isn’t doing anything productive. It’s only causing me stress and anxiety.
Feeling the wear of the last night in every muscle, I decide to whip up something to eat. Some food for me, Mango, and an alien. I have no idea what he could possibly eat – maybe he’s on a plankton-only diet or something equally strange, although those teeth tell me he’s probably an omnivore. A healing alien probably requires fuel, no different from a recovering hospital patient. I look through the pantry and find a bag of egg noodles and broth. I think I remember seeing a rotisserie chicken in the fridge. Perfect.
“Mango,” I muse aloud, not breaking my stride as I head for the tiny kitchen. “Chicken noodle soup will be good for him, don’t you think?” The soft purr from the living room hums agreement.
Searching the cupboards yields a large pot, a chopping board, and ingredients from the pantry and fridge. Carrots, celery, garlic, chicken, and a variety of vegetables find their way into the pot. The knife taps rhythmically against the board, the familiar chore of chopping oddly soothing in the eerie silence. Tossing the veggies into a pot, I sauté them in some butter. Once they’re softened, I add the chicken stock.
While that simmers on the stove, I shred some of the rotisserie chicken. The aroma of chicken soup slowly starts building, making my mouth water. If aliens are anything like humans, he’ll find the soup easy to digest and soothing when not feeling well – I hope, anyway. Although he’s injured, not sick. Eh, whatever. I’m not even sure if he’ll be able to eat it.
Mango saunters into the kitchen, rubbing against my legs. He must be drawn by the aroma of the cooking food that he anticipates he might be allowed a sample of. I pour his dry food into a bowl, hoping he won’t start loudly complaining and wake our guest before the soup is done. I peek into the living room, suddenly feeling paranoid that the strange alien is awake and observing me. However, when I stare at him, he appears completely passed out. I don’t see any movement, so I assume the alien is still out cold.
After checking the soup, I add the noodles. Then, I grab a kitchen stool, plopping down with a resigned sigh, weariness creeping into my bones. As the noodles cook and the rich aroma permeates the cabin, I allow my eyes to flutter shut, my rhythmic breathing in time with the gentle simmering of the pot.
As the scent of chicken soup begins to waft through the quaint cabin, I add salt and pepper and taste it. It’s exactly like my mom used to make it, filling me with a pang. Like her sister, Aunt Zizi, mom was adventurous. She loved sci-fi novels and movies and would’ve been so excited to be here and get ‘first contact’.
Pushing away the memories, I grab two bowls. I ladle up some soup for myself – it’s weird to have soup for breakfast, but I’m not cooking up a second meal just for me. I eat it quickly, burning my tongue in the process. Once I finish my meal, I fill the second bowl for the alien.
I kneel at the alien’s side and set the bowl on the coffee table at my elbow. Careful to grab the shoulder that isn’t injured, I gently shake my alien.
