Her Salvation, His Damnation

The night air was crisp. Grace and Rose walked down the narrow pavement, their laughter bouncing off the brick walls of the quiet residential street. "I’m telling you, Grace, you have to take it," Rose said, swinging her handbag as they approached the corner where cabs usually prowled. "The salary alone is enough to get you that apartment with the balcony. The one you’ve been dreaming about." Grace tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her heart fluttering at the thought. "It’s not just the money, Rose. It’s the chance to actually travel. They have offices in Florence. Imagine me, in Italy, writing from a café instead of my cramped kitchen table." Rose let out a bright, genuine giggle, bumping her shoulder against Grace’s. "I can’t wait for you to secure it. You’ve worked too hard to stay stuck here. You’re going to get that call, and we’re going to pop a bottle of something expensive. My treat." "Deal," Grace promised, her smile widening. But the smile faltered. The air suddenly felt wrong, the playful atmosphere punctured by a sound that didn't belong to the night. It wasn't the wind or a distant car. It was a low groan that sounded like it was in so much pain. Both women stiffened. The street, which had felt safe and familiar seconds ago, suddenly felt dangerous and cold. "Did you hear that?" Grace whispered, her voice barely a breath. Rose’s eyes were wide, darting toward the darkness of an intersecting alley. "I heard it. Grace, let's go. Let's just turn back to your place right now. That didn't sound like... it didn't sound good." "It sounded like someone was hurting, Rose," Grace said, already shifting her weight toward the noise. Her pulse was thrumming in her throat, but that innate, fierce streak of hers was overriding the urge to run. "Exactly! Which means whatever hurt them might still be there," Rose hissed, grabbing Grace’s sleeve. "Please, Grace. It’s nearly midnight." "I can't just leave them if they're in danger." Grace gently but firmly pulled her arm away. She began to move toward the sound, her footsteps light and cautious. Rose let out a frustrated, terrified whimper but didn't let her friend go alone. She followed a few paces behind, her knuckles white as she gripped her purse. They rounded the corner into a pool of amber light from a flickering streetlamp. There, sprawled across the floor, was a man. He was massive, his presence filling the narrow space even while broken. A few feet away, a black motorcycle lay on its side, the chrome glinting like a fallen beast. The man’s chest heaved in shallow, ragged bursts, and his gloved hand was pressed hard against his torso, dark fluid seeping through his fingers. Another groan broke from his lips—a raw sound of pure agony. His eyes were clamped shut, his jaw set in a rigid line of defiance against the pain. "Oh, God," Grace breathed. She didn't hesitate this time. She rushed to his side, dropping to her knees on the hard ground. The smell of gasoline and metallic blood hit her instantly. "Grace, don't!" Rose stayed back, her hands hovering near her mouth. "He's... look at him, Grace. He looks dangerous. We need to call an ambulance. Right now." "He’s in pain, Rose," Grace snapped back, though her hands were trembling as she reached toward him. She could see the rise and fall of his chest slowing. "He's losing too much blood. Help me." Rose fumbled for her phone, her fingers shaking. "I'm calling 911." As if the words were a trigger, the man’s head lolled to the side. His cracked lips moved, a faint, rasping mumble cutting through the air. "No... no hospital..." The effort seemed to drain the last of his strength. His body went limp, his head hitting the pavement with a dull thud as he slipped into a heavy, dark unconsciousness. "He fainted! Rose, he fainted," Grace cried, her panic rising. She pressed her hand over his to help stem the flow of blood, startled by the heat radiating from his skin. "This is crazy. We’re calling the police," Rose insisted, her thumb hovering over the keypad. "We don't know who he is, Grace. Look at that bike, look at his clothes. This isn't a normal accident." Grace looked down at the stranger. Even in this state, he looked arrogant, as if he were offended by his own weakness. She thought of his desperate plea. No hospital. In her world, hospitals were where you went to get better. In his, it clearly meant something else. Something worse. "No," Grace said firmly, looking up at her friend. "He said no hospital. If we call them, and he didn't want it... we don't know what kind of trouble he's in. We can't." "So what? We just leave him here to die?" "No. We're taking him to my house." Rose stared at her as if she’d grown a second head. "To your apartment? Grace, he’s a giant! We can't carry him! And what if he wakes up and... and murders us?" "He’s dying, Rose! Look at him!" Grace’s voice cracked with emotion. "My place is right there. It’s the closest door. Please. Grab his legs." Rose looked at the man, then at Grace’s determined, tear-bright eyes. She let out a rough breath, cursing under her breath. "I am going to regret this. I am so going to regret this." She moved to the man’s boots, her face twisted in a mask of fear and distaste. Grace moved behind his head, hooking her arms under his armpits. She winced at the sheer weight of him, he was solid muscle and heavy. "On three," Grace commanded. "One, two, three!" They lifted. Rose let out a loud, strained groan. "What does this man eat? Bricks? He’s impossibly heavy!" They began a slow, agonizing trek. Every step was a battle of physics and willpower. They moved in stops and starts, panting heavily, their shadows stretching long against the pavement. Luckily, the street remained a ghost town, no prying eyes watched the two women haul a bleeding, unconscious giant toward the safety of the brick building. By the time they reached the door of Grace’s apartment, sweat was stinging Grace’s eyes and her arms felt like they were being pulled from their sockets. They maneuvered him through the narrow hallway, bumping against the walls, until they finally reached the bedroom. "Wait! Wait!" Rose gasped, dropping his legs for a second. She scrambled toward the bed, grabbing a thick roll of nylon sheeting she used for her art projects from the corner. She spread it over the duvet with frantic movements. "I am not letting him ruin your mattress. The blood will never come out." With one final, back breaking heave, they hoisted him onto the bed. The man lay there, a dark, violent contrast to Grace’s soft, cream colored sheets. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of the two women’s ragged breathing. Rose stood back, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, her eyes locked on the stranger’s pale, rugged face. She turned to Grace, her voice trembling with the weight of what they had just done. "Okay. He's here," Rose whispered, her chest heaving. "He’s in your house. Now what, Grace? What’s next?"