Zoya’s P.O.V
All these scares I kept getting that he might suddenly wake up and attack me were probably just my tired brain trying to tell me that I needed some much deserved rest.
This hypothesis made sense, too, and even though my own kindness scared me, the
doctor in me wanted to tend to his wounds and care for him until he woke up. I did not
know if that was the smartest thing to do, but I wanted to do it anyway. I simply could
not, in good conscience, turn away from someone in need, and aside from my moral
compass, I was bound by oath to help the helpless, even if that person was an enemy.
Plus, it was not like I could haul him out of the house. It was better to tend to him than
let the wounded man lay unconscious on the floor of the room, possibly getting
infections from all the time he spent on the dusty, dirty ground with open cuts.
Knowing me, I would never be able to sleep soundly knowing he was just… there.
Sighing, my mind somewhat made up, I stood to take the dust cloth off of one of the couches in the living room. It was not an ideal blanket, but I did not have anything else to offer him.
I raised my arms and spread the cloth over his body, letting air resistance do its thing to
make sure that the entirety of his body was covered. Miraculously, he did not wake up
from the small dust cloud I stirred up that got me into racking coughing fits.
I wanted to call 911. I figured that if the shitty reception made it impossible for me to
contact someone I actually knew, then perhaps I could at least dial a hotline number,
but when I looked at the signal bars on my phone that were barely there, I suddenly lost
hope in the slim chance not having to deal with this predicament alone.
Moreover, I was thinking about how, if this man truly was a victim of a crime like I had
hypothesized earlier, he would not want the cops to be called on him, now, would he?
Plus, considering how he was technically the intruder in this scenario, they might not be very kind to him.
My gaze returned to him. Him being literally in the middle of the fucking room was a nuisance. I had to get him out of the way somehow. But how?
Even though I knew it was impossible, I used two of my hands to latch onto his feet and
try to drag him away from the center of the room and toward the couch. As I expected, I could not get him to so much as budge an inch at all. He was too heavy, too muscular,
for someone my size and stature to be able to move him for even just a centimeter.
Then how should I make this more comfortable for him? I couldn't very well upturn the
couches to steal the upholstery for him to lie on top of as a makeshift bed, right? Oh,
then I should just at least make sure that his head is comfortable.
I took one of the pillows from the couch and placed it under his head. Next, I had to
tend to his wounds. I did not know if this cabin had any first-aid supplies, but as a
person in the field of medicine, I never went out without my own.
I stood to grab one of my luggage bags, the one where I placed my first-aid supplies in,
and took the materials that I needed. After having secured the things I would need to
administer first-aid on the wounded man, I went back to where he was and let the
supplies fall to the floor.
I uncovered the dust cloth up to the bottom of his stomach. His chest and arms bore the
brunt of whatever attack he had survived, most of his cuts and bruises being there. I was
a naturally curious person, so I could not help but wonder what had happened to him. I
came up with various scenarios in my head, ranking which one was the most possible,
but I knew I was probably getting ahead of myself.
The best thing to do was to wait for him to wake up and personally tell him what had
happened to him. He would not have to tell me everything if he didn't want to, but he
owed me as much.