Perspective: Sierra
The next morning greets me as it usually does: all too fucking soon. I fight the weight of the sun and its warmth, prying myself from the sheets. It takes me a ten count and a few yawns. One would think that after a few years of going to bed far too late, I'd have learned my lesson, but I've elected to keep brute forcing my way through my wrecked sleep schedule. Bree's onboarding process took me longer than expected, even with prompt emailed replies from the redhead.
A text hits my phone on the bedside, and I roll my eyes. It's only a few minutes of gazing into the floor at my bedside when another text lands, then a third. I feel a sigh pull itself from my lips, and I get up to start my day, leaving the phone on my bedside. A hot shower doesn't much help with the feeling of leaded limbs and eyelids. Dressing myself is like moving through mud, and I can barely force myself to make a decision on which of the dozens of outfits in my overly large closet I'll put on today. The bed calls my name as I pick out black denim shorts and a cropped punk band shirt that still fits just as comfortably today as it did five years ago. I give a glance at the bed again, feeling like I'm about to go to war and leave a spouse behind, but I manage to slump down the stairs. I find myself staring into a fridge that has only a few solitary protein shakes and fruit smoothies.
After a breakfast that tastes like chalk and processed chocolate, I try to make my home presentable. Bree is arriving within the hour, and it would be more coherent to simply demonstrate the standard of living I expect, than to describe it while she stares at dusty books and dying plants on too many windowsills. Of the dozen rooms and hallways, only the first three or four on the way to the master bedroom have much decoration at all. My last interior designer had shifty eyes and a tendency to take too many photos. I've done without for roughly three years now. Pleasantly, that means that using a push broom on the cold marble floors and a feather duster on the limited accoutrement is quick enough. By my estimate, I have about 5 minutes until Bree arrives, if she keeps with her previous punctuality.
I'm on my way to the garden when I notice one final shelf that still has the remnants of past days clinging to it. I sigh, and the duster trembles a little in my hand. With tired movements, I begin cleaning the trophy case, wiping particles off of the dozens of awards and photographs.
My gaze lands on the smallest of the awards, its rough glass texture and poorly chiseled nameplate as familiar as ever. The glassblower may have intended a figure skater on a plane of ice, but it's always looked more like a dolphin with arms bursting out of a cloud to me. The duster brushes more carefully across its surface than the other trophies, and I feel my cheeks pull into a smile. Memories of the cold, smooth surface of an ice rink and the freedom of flying across it tug at my mind. I let my eyes close for just a moment, but it's a moment too long.
My fingers lose grip on the awkwardly shaped trophy, and it spirals out of reach before I can react. The noise of the glass figurine shattering on marble is short, but echoes down the long hallways twice, distinctly. The sound of my own sigh follows, and doesn't echo.
Fuck, Sierra. This is why I need to go to bed earlier.
I kneel down, and begin to gingerly pick up the long, sharp shards of glass. If I arrange them right in my hands, I can probably pick up all the pieces and get them to the garbage in one trip. However, it's only the third or fourth piece that greets me with a cool texture and a biting pain in my palm, as the glass pieces slip against each other in my grip.
I grimace, and am greeted with the image of a rivulet of blood starting to course down my forearm. Fantastic. The glass chunks drop from my hands and I start towards my kitchen for my first aid kit. I've only left a trail of a few blood droplets on the marble when I barely hear a gentle knock on the front door.
Bree even knocks in a timid way. I'm not surprised in the least. I'm barely able to get to the door by her third attempt at knocking, each time a little louder than the last.
My uninjured hand pulls the door open, and I can't help but give a half-hearted grin at the way Bree's eyebrows shoot up in response. Verdant eyes quickly trace me, then double take at the crimson trail down my wrist.
"You're early, Mortensen."
Her eyebrows mash together and her mouth opens slightly.
"You're bleedin', Miss Calaver. A lot."
I roll my eyes instinctively, and turn away, leaving the double doors open for her to follow.
"Wow, look at that, I hadn't noticed. Follow." My uninjured hand gestures the command, as I'm off down the marbled halls to my kitchen. I can feel her gaze on me as I walk. The injured hand pulses with each step, and I can begin to feel my fingers shake. It's not a long walk to the kitchen, an offshoot of the main entry near the back of the house. I glance behind me as we enter, and notice Bree's eyes are resting firmly on my butt. My instinct to reprimand her wandering eyes dies on my tongue, a strange warmth beginning to spread through me instead. The pulsing sensation of pain in my hand begins to pound in my ears just as soon, and I feel the telling heat of blood rising to my face.
The sink nearest me responds to a gentle touch, and I adjust the knobs for warm water, beginning to wash the cut. Bree stares on, and it seems like her boots are too tight and her hands are too still. She wears a pair of fitting jeans that let me see her hips shifting and a daisy-patterned shirt that hugs her chest. I catch her lips struggling to contain her words as mine struggle to contain a small cry of pain. The water burns, though it's only slightly above room temperature. The sensation pulses up my arm, through my bones.
"Miss... You need to be usin' cold water. It constricts the blood vessels so it slows the bleedin'. And you have the water pressure a little high. And..." Bree's eyebrows are crushed together and her voice comes with a strained edge. Before I know it, her emerald eyes are on mine, blazing with something I haven't had directed at me in years. Concern. She steps to my side all too fast.
"God damn it." Bree hisses the words beneath her breath as she gently takes my hand from the stream of water, and turns the faucet colder with the other hand.
I'm shocked by the smell of her first, petrichor on an early morning. Her fingers prod my injured hand forward insistently, and I can feel each tiny section of skin she's touching beginning to tingle. The cool water initially bites into the wound on my palm but it doesn't matter. Her auburn hair is soft against my shoulder and I can feel the smooth texture of warm hands gently working the blood from my wrist. My awareness spreads to a million points on my body and my chest is rising faster than it needs to. There's a girl with tan skin and dark freckles holding my hand in my house where the fridge is stocked for one and the halls are long enough to let your thoughts wander in solitude. It should be overwhelming. It's electrifying. My eyes are wide and my face is warm.
I have to remember to breathe when Bree's eyes leave my hand and land on mine. Where the fuck is my self-control? I'm better than this.
"You know this needs stitches, right?"
Her voice is low, her drawl almost enticing on my ears. My brain searches for a valid response that doesn't allow her to take me to a public hospital.
"Your eyes are my favorite color."
Bree freezes in place with eyebrows scrunched and narrowed eyes. I don't know why I said that. I take the moment to prise my hand from hers, and turn to the nearest cabinet. Her fingers call to mine and beg me to return, but I let my hands land on the first aid kit and focus on shuffling through the disorganized medical supplies. I find the wound closure strips, narrow bandages with a small plastic pull tab. I present them and a small gauze roll to Bree, expecting her to be my extra hands.
My words have colored Bree's cheeks, darkening her tanned face and turning her freckles crimson. Her eyes are tracing the ground and the whiteness of her knuckles on the countertop isn't lost on me. Bree's reaction is odd to me, her eyebrows raised like she's surprised, but her frame rigid like she's holding back an angry burst of words. Maybe I've overshared, or bothered her with my flippant response to her attempt at triage. Tough, we need to move forward.
"Mortensen, bind the wound. We don't have time for hospitals or those spineless muppets at an Instacare." I catch her eyes, and gesture to the the supplies laid out on the marble. Bree blinks hard, and shakes herself free of whatever emotion had held her in place. She can't seem to make eye contact, but diligently steps right to my side and selects a length of gauze.
There we go. Back in control. Back to holding the leash.
With eyes recently shocked awake, I can see that the cut on my palm runs about two and a half inches long, from the base of my pinky to the center of my hand. It's definitely through the skin and down to the fatty layers, though the cold water trick has seemed to dull the pain and inhibit the tide of red.
Bree's hands once again take my wrist, and the same tingles rip through me again. Her fingers are light and time passes all too quickly all of a sudden. When I pry my eyes forcefully from her face, she's placed the wound closure strips on my palm and is pulling the cut closed.
"Good. I have no doubts we'll be making our flight tonight. I'm assuming you've packed a change of clothes and basic toiletries?"
Bree straightens to her usual height about six inches shorter than me, and I flex my hand very slightly. The pain is still there, and I doubt I'll have much use of my hand for quite a while. Inconvenient.
"I got most of what I need, yes, Ma'am."
I roll my eyes again.
"It's Sierra, to you. I'm twenty seven, not fifty."
There's a smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth, almost hidden. It plays in my mind on repeat even as she speaks.
"Alright, Sierra."