Page 37 of The Wild Man

His expression is fierce when he says only one word. “Protect.”

twelve

Everlee

Sitting back on my heels, I look down at the man who’s totally upended my life, but also saved it. I hate Wild Man for many reasons. All of them are valid. He’s held me captive. He’s raped me multiple times. He keeps me tied to him or a tree so I can’t get away. He’s threatened to kill my family. He doesn’t allow me to wear clothes. And he’s turned my body against me.

All of those reasons should have me rejoicing in the fact that he’s currently lying in his bed, dying. He’s so weak right now that I could easily leave him. It would take me time to figure out the knot on the rope or find something sharp to cut it—because of course, even after being bitten by a venomous snake, he still made sure to tie the other end of the rope around his wrist before he fell onto the pile of blankets in his tree hut—but from the look of Wild Man, I’ve got all the time in the world now.

So why am I sitting here by his side, wiping away the dampness from his forehead that never seems to go away. I should be picking at the knot or finding something I can use to saw through it.

I’m an idiot, that’s why.

Within an hour of getting back to the tree hut, the symptoms started. His breathing became labored and a fine sheen of sweat coated his forehead. The site of the wound is an angry red and is swelling. I look at the two holes now and notice several blisters forming.

I check the pulse in his wrist, and I don’t know if I should be alarmed or relieved to feel a rapid beat.

Tears cling to my lashes as I stare down at him. He fell asleep a bit ago. His cheeks are flush and he’s warm to the touch.

As much as I hate him, the thought of him dying tears jagged holes through my heart. I don’t want him to die. I want him to let me go, but not at the expense of his life.

I pick up the piece of cloth I’ve been using to wipe his face and chest and dip it in the clay bowl holding water. Thankfully, the rope attaching us together is long, so I’m able to move around the tree hut.

While he laid in bed, soft grunts of pain leaving his dried lips, I left him long enough to search for supplies. I found a few decently clean pieces of cloth and another jug of water. I cleaned the wounds with the water and cloth as best as I could, but I don’t know if it’s enough. I don’t think it matters anyway. Water and a questionably clean cloth isn’t enough to fight sepsis and necrosis.

“You’re so fucking stupid for doing that,” I mutter past the thick clog in my throat.

Wild Man groans, but otherwise doesn’t move or open his eyes.

I run the rag over his forehead and across his cheeks, wiping away the sweat that will only be replaced with more in a few moments. His breathing is labored and rattily, like he’s sick with pneumonia. If only his illness was that simple.

I rinse and rewet the rag with fresh water and start washing down his neck and over his collarbones.

“Why can’t I hate you like I’m supposed to?” I ask the silent man. “You’ve taken so much from me. I have every right to want you dead.”

The hard muscles below the rag don’t so much as twitch when I move it to his chest. Despite the dire situation, I can’t help but appreciate the hard planes and deep valleys of his pecs.

“But I don’t,” I continue quietly, like I’m afraid some other person may hear my confession. “You make me so angry sometimes that I want to stab your eyes with rusty knives and cut off your hands with a dull blade, but I don’t want you to die.” I choke on the last word. A tear drops from my chin, landing on his chest right over his heart, and I wipe it away with the rag.

I move the cloth down his stomach, my eyes tracing each inch of skin that I wash. I linger on the two slash marks on his lower stomach, and once again, my curiosity piques. Sorrow fills my stomach when I think about everything this man must have gone through since he was a child. There are so many stories he could tell me.

But now those stories will die with him. No one will ever know how one, small brave five-year-old boy managed to survive in the wilderness all by himself.

Using the back of my hand, I wipe away another tear before it has a chance to fall.

Once I’m done with Wild Man’s chest, I run the rag over his face and neck one more time. I’m barely managing to hold onto my emotions and exhaustion has hit with the effort. I drop the rag in the bowl and curl on my side beside Wild Man with my hands tucked under my cheek. I keep my eyes on the side of his face until I can’t keep them open anymore.

* * *

No matter how tired I am, I can’t fall into a deep sleep. I’m terrified I’m going to wake up and find that Wild Man is dead. Each time I open my eyes to check on him, he’s in the same position and his breathing and pulse are just as erratic as the last time. I wipe him down with the rag several more times, having no idea if it’s helping him at all.

It’s been hours since we made it back to his tree hut, and he hasn’t opened his eyes since he closed them.

I peel back the cloth covering the puncture wounds and find the blisters have grown in size. The swollen skin around the holes have turned to a deeper shade of red.

I get up and dump out the water from the bowl then pour in fresh water. Using a part of the cloth, I gently wipe around the edges of the wounds, trying to keep them as clean as possible.

I know my efforts are in vain. The chances of Wild Man surviving a rattlesnake bite are very slim, but if there’s even a minuscule chance, I have to take it.