026 POV finish cleaning wound after sukee 1532

I return to the washroom, looking at the man in a new light. Who the hell is he? How on earth does he know so much about building code violations?

'Take one of the bandages and wrap it tight around the wound.' He orders.

How does he know so much about home surgery? 

The man holds a piece of bloody gauze firmly over the wound as I unfurl the bandage around his muscular leg. Judging from his face alone I'd say he's about fifty years old. But his toned body is more befitting of a thirty year old athlete, which means he looks after himself and has a regular gym routine.

'Pull the bandage as tight as you can. The pressure will hold the wound together and help slow the bleeding.' The man speaks like he's a doctor advising a medical student. 

'I would have thought you'd need stitches?' I say.

The man shakes his head, 'No. Wounds like this are better left open. Especially when the risk of infection is high. Which it is in this case. Open wounds heal with less chance of developing a secondary complication. Even if I was in hospital a good doctor would leave it open to heal without sewing it shut.' 

'How the hell do you know all this?' I ask, letting my curiosity get the better of me. 

The man ignores my question, evidently unwilling to let on any details about himself. Instead, he says, 'Take the scissors and cut my trousers off me completely.'

I take the blades and cut the fabric away until I'm able to slide them off. His underwear are stained with blood, as are his jacket and sweater.

'Pass me that bottle of antibiotics.' 

I do as asked and he unscrews the lid, taps out three pills then swallows them dry. 

'What clothes have you got that'll fit me?'

'Not much. You're pretty much twice my size.'

'You must have something. Even old baggy track pants would do. Get me up.' 

I help the man to standing. At first he favours his good leg, then tries shifting a little weight to the wounded one. The moment he does he grits his teeth and moans in agony. The metal might be out of his thigh but that wound is going to take a long time to heal. 

He drapes an arm around me and together we slowly shuffle from the washroom into my bedroom.

The apartment doesn't have any inbuilt closets, instead I keep my clothes on a free-standing rack, some draped over the corner chair, some strewn on the floor and some in and around the dirty laundry basket.  

'Get me the largest trousers, biggest shirt or t-shirt and sweater that you have.' The man says as he slumps into the armchair in the corner of my room. I find a large t-shirt that was left with me by a former boyfriend that I usually sleep in which I think will probably fit him. In the dirty laundry I find a raggedy pair of track pants that are in desperate need of a wash, and unfortunately my largest sweater is also my favourite for flopping around in at home. It takes me a minute to find as it turns out it was under my bed. I hand these to the man who looks them over and doesn't reject my offering so I assume he thinks they'll fit. 

'Kneel facing the wall with your hands on your head.' The man orders. I do as he says, but I position myself in a way so that I can glimpse him in my dress mirror. I discreetly watch him place his handgun on the cluttered coffee table beside him then remove his bloodied jacket and sweater. As he changes clothes my mind races for a way out of this. I think back to his threat - the moment I no longer need you is the moment you die - and wonder if he meant that or if it was said in the heat of the moment to impress upon me the urgency and the severity of the situation.

'I guess, you don't need me anymore?' I prompt.

'What makes you say that?' He asks as he removes his bloodied t-shirt.

It's hard to read his tone. I'm not sure if that was stained with sarcasm or if he genuinely wants to know my thesis. I hope for the latter and lay out my case. 

'Well, your leg's bandaged and you're off the street. There's no immediate threat of death or arrest while you're here. You could phone someone, have them pick you up and go, you'd never need to see me again.'

The man considers this. 'I see your logic, but you're missing a few things.' He replies.

I address the elephant in the room.  

'Sure, I know what you look like, I saw you kill that man, but you must know by now that I'm no threat to you. I want to be away from you, I want you out of my life. There's no chance I'll go to the police.'

'I'm actually not worried about you going to the police.' The man says and it sounds like he means it. 'The thing it,' he continues, 'The police will come to you sooner or later, like it or not.'

'Sure, but I promise you I'll tell them nothing.' I say sincerely. There's no way I'd want to get mixed up in any investigation into this man.

Of the clothes I gave him he has managed to get the t-shirt and sweater on but he's struggling to pull the trouser up over the wound. He looks at me in the dress mirror, which makes me realise that he knew I could see him all along.

'You won't have much choice when the police get a hold of you. You ever been interrogated before?'

'Not for anything serious. Nothing like this.' I reply honestly. 'My only encounters with authorities were in my late teens for minor offences.'

The man grimaces in pain as he finally manages to pull the trousers up and over his bandaged wound. Blood has already started to seep through the fabric that binds it and the excess blots through the track pants almost immediately. We've done a good job, but I still think his wound needs serious professional attention.

'Look, if you think about it, the police don't need to know that I was involved with any of this. There's no way they can know I was present when you shot whoever the hell that was. I can just say I was inside the restaurant and it wasn't until I was leaving that I realised that my car had been stolen.' 

The man considers this as he picks up his handgun. 'Why were you at the restaurant that late?' 

'Because my boss is an asshole, what do you care?'

'If you weren't there we wouldn't be here.' He snaps back. 

I want to tell him to go fuck himself, that none of this is my fault, but there's no point in antagonising him so I let the point go. 'No one needs to know that I saw anything. The only external security camera at the restaurant is by the front door. There'd be no evidence that I saw you shoot the man.'

'You're forgetting about the drug store.'

'We destroyed the computer that had the recording on it.' 

'I did. You tried to leave it so the hard drive could be salvaged.' The man fixes me with an accusatory look that I shy away from. 

'The pharmacist and the checkout girl know exactly what you look like. They'd recognise a photo of you in an instant.' He says flatly, and there's no arguing with him on that point. 

'So if you deny having seen me at the restaurant, then you get identified by the drug store employees the police will see through you in a heartbeat, then they'll grill you and you'll fall apart.'

'I won't though. What if I'm honest, sort of. What if I say I saw you shoot the man but I describe you completely wrong.' I list off the opposite of the man's features, 'I'll say you're short, fat, balding and what hair you do have is blonde. I'll say you had a foreign accent, European somewhere, I don't know, French maybe...'

'No, stop, stop, stop. I can already tell you're lying.' The man says shaking his head.

'How?'

'You're too specific, you're too willing, everything that came out of your mouth just now sounded manufactured. It was like you didn't even believe it.' He says. And the annoying thing is he's right. I've never been a good liar.

'I just need you to know that I'm no threat to you. I'll do everything I possibly can to not get you in trouble'  I say as earnestly as I can. 

The man stares at me for a beat then says, 'I believe you. But the police, when they get you, they'll glean every piece of information out of you. It's what they're trained to do. Like it or not, you're the only person who can identify me, and I'm not about about to let you go. Our night is far from over.'