Istare at this Leelee human as she smiles happily at me. What a strange creature.
The smile drops from her face as she examines my shoulder again, letting me know that she also realizes it is not healing as it should. The projectile is still embedded in my flesh, and until I get it out, my cybernetics cannot heal me properly. The problem is that I don’t believe I can remove the object on my own. Loathe though I am to admit it, I need help.
I watch the female, Leelee, with a strange mixture of fascination and unease. It feels like we are primitive beings struggling to bridge an enormous interstellar communication gap. However, Leelee has an expressive face. She is easy to read and intelligent enough to discern my meaning with minimal fuss. Taking a deep breath that slightly burns due to the invasive piece of debris still embedded in my shoulder, I point at the source of my pain, hoping my intentions are clear. I try several motions with my hands to make sure the female understands that there is an object in my flesh that needs to be removed.
At first, she is confused by my gestures, which irks me, but her expression quickly morphs into horrified understanding. She raises a finger – a universal signal for a momentary pause, and she rushes out of the room only to return shortly. She clutches an archaic writing tool and a packet of paper.
It seems ludicrous to me that a species capable of space travel still uses such antiquated modes of communication. However, I push away my disdain since these items will assist me in this instance.
Her face scrunches up in deep concentration as she begins to write, her pink tongue peeking out from the corner of her mouth in concentration. The gesture seems to be a habit for the female, and I find myself amused.
I can observe her at leisure since she is concentrating on the paper before her. Her eyelashes are long, and her cheekbones are high and elegant. She bites her full lips as she works. She is quite lovely despite being a strange shade of pink. It is too bad she is so undersized. She must’ve been the runt of her pod.
After a minute, Leelee turns the pad of paper to me with a triumphant, hopeful look. She shows me a crude drawing of the weapon the human security personnel had used on me. When I see it, I nod my head. I lift my non-injured arm and point at the drawing. Then I touch the bandage covering my wound. I crook my fingers at her, asking her to give me the writing instrument and paper. I take the slim writing tool between my fingers. I sketch a crude representation of the weapon’s ammunition.
I lay the writing tool down and pick up the paper, turning it towards her. I tap my finger repeatedly on the drawn projectile before pointing toward my bandaged shoulder.
Taking a leap of faith, I mimic a pinching gesture at my shoulder, wincing at the imaginary pain. My eyes bore into hers, willing her to comprehend. I repeat the action, slower this time, in the desperate hope that she’ll grasp what I’m showing her. I make a pinching and pulling motion, hoping that Leelee will understand what I’m trying to convey. I need her to pull the projectile out of my flesh.
Leelee bites her lip, red spreading across her cheeks as realization dawns upon her. With a hesitant nod, she looks at me, signaling she understands. Some tension eases from my shoulders, but I maintain my gaze, silently demanding her to not falter or back away. She has listened, but the true test will be whether she will act. For now, all I can do is hope and wait.
She gives me a worried look and then leans closer. “Dis ez guna urt,” Leelee says. Gingerly, Leelee peels back the fabric of the makeshift bandage. Her fingers are light and impossibly warm against my skin.
Her breath fans out in small whispers, grazing my skin and creating ripples of emotion I fail to comprehend. The sensation stirs me from my usual state of emotional restriction, providing a momentary distraction from the throbbing wound.
One of her hands settles over my shoulder while she presses the fingers of her other hand lightly around the wound. The soft yet firm press of her ministrations almost pulls a rough groan from my lips, but I bite it back.
Leelee snatches her hand away as if she can sense my silent groan. Her brown-green eyes laden with worry flicker up to meet mine. The corners of her mouth curl faintly upward in an apologetic smile.
Leelee says a few more words I am unable to comprehend. She bites on the nail of her thumb, looking lost in thought. Then she huffs out a breath that seems half resigned and half scared. She points at my drawing and says, “Bullit.” Then she points at my shoulders, saying, “Bullit. En deere, ya?” I nod because I believe I understand what she is trying to convey.
Leelee’s shoulders slump, but she nods. She holds up her finger, indicating that she needs me to wait again.
Leelee abruptly stands and I watch her keenly as she flits about the room, disappearing into another space. She reemerges moments later carrying a plastic red box. My eyes narrow as I watch her paw through its contents, her brow furrowed as she empties the box. I can see that it is filled with what appears to be medical supplies. However, it’s clear she’s not finding what she’s looking for. A strange sense of disappointment floods through me.
Suddenly, she stands up and scurries away, leaving the building altogether. Panic creeps up my spine. Is she abandoning me? Is she going for help? Will I be outnumbered again, helpless in my captivity? But then I hear the distant sounds of rummaging from another building. I strain to listen to what is happening, wishing I could stand up.
Scarcely a minute passes before she comes hustling back, an old-looking tool clenched in her hands. I scrutinize it from my reclined state, understanding its purpose: grasping and pulling. I’m pleased that she understands what I need but I look at the tool in apprehension. I wouldn’t use that thing on my ship, much less my body. However, I don’t have a choice.
Leelee heads to her small cooking area. I watch as she scrubs the tool thoroughly, talking to herself softly under her breath. Then, she fills a metal pot with water, sets it on what I believe to be a heating surface, and drops the tool in. It clatters noisily in the pot.
Even in my weakened state, a sense of admiration for her ingenuity sparks within me. I believe she is trying to sanitize the tool before she uses it on me. I have no way to explain that it is an unnecessary step since my nanites prevent the spread of germs and infections. She holds an intelligence that I may have underestimated. She is trying her best to sanitize the tool – a primitive method, no doubt, but possibly the best this dwelling can offer.
I watch as she returns to my side and lays out an array of items from the medical supply box – fresh bandages, adhesive strips, and other unrecognizable packets. Once she has set up her items to her satisfaction, Leelee returns to the cooking room to check the boiling water. The dancing steam rising from inside the pot lets me know that the sanitization process is done.
Wisps of steam billow up as Leelee pours out most of the scorching liquid, leaving the metal tool at the pot’s bottom. Using a thick bandage to protect her hand from the heat, she gingerly retrieves the sterilized tool. She returns to my side, setting the now-sanitized tool on a clean white expanse of bandage. As the tool cools, she squats beside me. She dons a pair of thin gloves. A focused frown graces her features as she gingerly probes my wound. She quietly talks to herself the entire time she examines my injury.
This human seems to do that quite often. From the tone of her voice, it sounds like she is asking herself questions and then answering them. I’ve noticed that she frequently talks to the small orange animal – which I am quite sure cannot speak – as if it is a sentient being. Perhaps, my initial assessment that Leelee is mentally unwell holds true. Although her interactions with me seem within normal parameters.
Leelee carefully tears open a small packet, the crinkling sound piercing the quiet air around us. From within, she draws out a wet square of cloth. It carries a strong astringent aroma – biting and harsh, like the sting of winter winds on a Cryzorian night. She delicately but efficiently swipes the cloth around my wound.
She tests the temperature of the metallic handle of the grasping tool with the back of her hand. Satisfied, she lifts it into the light and examines it through narrowed eyes.
She stares at the tool like she’s afraid it will bite her. Then she looks at me with sad, worried eyes. She stands up and grabs a shaded light off a nearby table. She brings it closer, setting it so that it will light her work.
She’s already tense and scared and I don’t want to make it worse. Something about her gaze lights a spark of iron within me. I nod – a slight tilt of my head – and brace myself for the pain that promises to play out in all its raw glory.
Leelee meets my eyes and gives me what I interpret to be a commiserating look. She gulps thickly, her eyes flitting back and forth between me and the tool in her hand.
“Dis guna suk,” she says as she leans close to my shoulder, the grasping tool held at the ready.
CHAPTER 20
Lily
My breath hitches, and trepidation coats my insides like a cold sweat, but I force my trembling hand to steady. Slowly, carefully, I press my hand against his chest, cupping his wound between my thumb and forefinger, feeling the warm strength of his pectoral under my palm.
With a deep, drawn-out breath, I grab the old needle nose pliers I found in an abandoned toolbox in the garage. At least the pliers aren’t rusty, I suppose. I have never wished more for the sterile hallways of an ER and the adequate tools my job usually provides. But now, in this cramped cabin with an interstellar life-form lying on a rug, my nursing abilities are being tested like never before. It’s not lost on me that I’m almost in this alien’s lap, but I push away the awareness and focus on the task at hand.
As gently as possible, I spread open the wound. The raw red of flesh greets me. Ravok’s body stiffens, his glowing eyes squeezing shut as pain rips through him. However, he doesn’t utter a single sound of protest.
As slowly and carefully as possible, I slip the tapered end of the pliers into the wound. I can feel my heart hammering in my chest and blood pounding in my ears as Ravok’s muscles tremble under my palm. Yet, there are no objections, no attempts to push me away, even though I can see the pain reflecting in his eyes when I briefly glance at his face. Ravok stays remarkably still despite the obvious pain I’m putting him through. His raw determination cuts through the air, a testament to his inherent grit.
His skin, previously a shiny charcoal gray, now holds a faint ashy undertone that quickens my heartbeat. However, he stays still, growling low and guttural. His eyes remain locked on me, watching me work with unwavering intensity, the glow in them dulling but never wavering. “You’re doing great. I need you to hold still, okay?” I whisper in a soft, soothing tone.
As I painstakingly and methodically work the old tool deeper, I can’t help but let out a sigh of relief when I feel the subtle plink of metal on metal. The bullet! The tension in my shoulders eases a little. “We’re close, Ravok… just a little longer,” I whisper, eyes darting sympathetically up to his face. Yet, I can’t shake off the sinking feeling of regret. Regret for the pain I am causing him, regret for this strange turn of fate that brought him to my doorstep.
