Abby
After some convincing, I manage to get Karl to sit down so I can address his bleeding hand. His demeanor is belligerent, tinged with the kind of stubbornness that only comes hand-in-hand with the overconsumption of alcohol.
“Just stop,” he grumbles as I approach with the first aid kit. “I’m fine, and besides, you don’t need to waste your precious time on something so meaningless and stupid.”
His words sting, but I push past the hurt, focusing on the task at hand. I know he’s just drunk and angry, and this isn’t like him at all. “Karl, just shut up and let me help you,” I insist.
Finally, Karl seems to relent and allows me to look at the cut. I can’t help but cringe a bit as I inspect it; it’s deep, deeper than I expected, and there are a few little bits of glass sitting on top o
