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BANG!
The shot went off, and pain exploded in the Author’s gut. It was a deep, fiery pain that set his every nerve alight, and he choked, staggering back, before his legs gave out and he was falling to the floor of his shed. His two characters – ungrateful little bastards, he should kill them – immediately took off, the one untying his friend and booking it out the shed door. Leaving the Author on the ground, bleeding out.
He gasped sharply, pressing a hand to his wound, and grit his teeth. Instantly his hand was soaked with blood, there was so much blood there was so much blood – Breathing hard, and gritting his teeth harder, he ripped off his shirt and pressed that to the wound instead. He needed to stitch himself up, but he could feel the wound in his back, there was no way he could reach that. Stitching the front and applying pressure would have to do.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the Author stood. He could feel the blood draining from his face, leaving him lightheaded and dizzy as his wound wept openly. Already his shirt was soaked, damn his hemophilia. He staggered a single step forward, and nearly collapsed again, bracing himself against the chair his character had been tied to. He hissed through his teeth. This was a pain, a vengeance he’d never felt before. This is what he got for letting people live.
“Fuck.” Drenched in sweat already, the Author pulled himself forward, stumbling out of the shed and towards his cabin. It was hard – he fell twice, smearing blood across the grass. The second time he almost didn’t get up again, panting, dizzy, and in blinding agony. There was no one to help him – the Author had kept it that way on purpose, he never anticipated being shot –
He forced himself to his hands and knees with sheer willpower and spite, then to just his knees, and then he was staggering into the cabin, slamming the door open and smearing blood across the wood. Bathroom. That’s where he kept the meager medical supplies he had, he knew he had a needle and thread in there from a past experience giving himself stitches, it would have to do.
Getting there was the challenge, as the Author kept losing his footing, stumbling into walls and over books and papers piled precariously around his cabin. He’d gripe about getting blood all over his first editions later, if he lived through this. When he lived through this. When. His shirt was dripping with blood, his hands were a mess, he was losing focus, he needed to focus, focus dammit –
Stumbling into his bathroom, the Author rifled through his medicine cabinet, popping five over the counter painkillers that were likely expired with how old they were, and grabbed the little first aid kit. He fumbled with the zipper, and sat down on the toilet seat as he took out the needle and thread. He was forced to let go of his shirt, but it was so soaked with blood that it stuck to his skin. His hands were so bloody that it was easy to slick the thread and thread the needle, though his hands shook quite badly.
Finally, he was forced to remove his shirt, and he couldn’t help the whimper that escaped him as the fabric stuck and pulled at the edges of his wound. Overall the wound was small, and it was far enough to the side – combined with the Author’s knowledge of anatomy – that he didn’t think it hit anything important. He was quite lucky, if he wasn’t still bleeding out in his tiny cabin bathroom.
Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, the Author licked his lips, panting, and braced the needle against his flesh. The gunshot wound hurt so bad, he barely felt it when the needle pierced his skin, and he bit down on his other hand as he slowly, painfully, sewed himself together.
When he was done, he gasped, leaning back against the toilet. He was still bleeding pretty badly, but it was better, and he reached against for the first aid kit for some disinfectant to clean himself up. His jeans were ruined, his shirt was a goner, and his skin was smeared dark red from the sheer amount of blood. He just grabbed a wad of toilet paper – immediately bloody from the mess on his hands – and upturned the bottle of disinfectant over his new stitches.
The pain was immediate. It burned, and the Author whined, biting down on his hand again. His panting grew louder as he dabbed at the tender wound, but really just succeeded in smearing the blood around. It would have to do.
With the wound ‘cleaned’, the Author stood again, leaving his shirt behind, and stumbled out of the bathroom and towards his bedroom. He grabbed another shirt from his dresser, balling it up and pressing it to the exit wound in his back, and he winced. He practically crawled into bed, lying on his back for the added pressure despite the pain, and he pulled the blankets up to his chin. He was so cold, likely from the blood loss, and he closed his eyes. He’d be fine. He’d be fine, he’d taken care of the worst of it, he’d get through this, and then he’d hunt down those bastards and make them pray that he killed them. It would be fine.
Distantly, the Author was aware he shouldn’t fall asleep. It was too dangerous, but the lull of sleep was too strong. He was cold…and exhausted…
The Author took one last deep breath, and slipped off into a dreamless slumber.