With the tip of the blade, he cut my sleeve, revealing the gauze that covered my wound. It was damp with blood.
He stiffened in place, staring at the injury fixedly for a moment too long. As if he were nauseated or enchanted by the sight. Unconsciously, I shrank against the wall, not knowing what to expect. Then he shook his head to himself, as if to compose himself.
"Is there any first aid kit nearby?" he asked.
"I think there is one under the sink counter in the bathroom. Why?"
"I am going to suture your stitches," he declared determinately, as if it were the most casual situation in the world, having the person who stabbed you putting your pieces back together.
"You are not," I snorted, shaking my head at that absurd idea. But before I could stop him, he was turning his back on me
