Kate's POV
I hold my breath, edging into the kitchen in my most silent manner, which isn't silent in the slightest, and retrieve my deadliest looking kitchen knife. Which I know for a fact is as blunt as a spoon, but the man at my door doesn't know this...and I hope he doesn't get close enough to find out.
"Please, open the door!" He pleads again, the noise muffled by the wood of the door.
I press my face to the window and can still make out the bloody mess outside. Nobody ever comes up here, and seeing any face, let alone this bloodied up thug, is worrying.
He kneels, his fists raised, banging furiously on the wood, I stop to wonder how long my delicate door may hold out, and how I'll struggle to get those stains out.
His face is obscured by shadows as his head hangs limply. But I can make out a mass of, what I can assume used to be, blonde hair. His clothes are smart, or once were, a suit, dark, well fitting, expensive looking, but ultimately torn and ruined. The rips revealing glimpses of a strong man. He is slim, a small frame, but toned, and the rips show lean and trained muscle.
Maybe he is a criminal...A hired killer, a hit gone wrong. Maybe he is a spy, government. He does have the body of a soldier...I've seen Leon the professional, the Bourne films. I know how it pans out.
My mind flits through endless and mainly ridiculous options, but as his strength begins waning and he presses his forehead against his forearm, I know I have to help him, for all I know, he's a harmless chap whose been in a car crash! Well...from the damage I'm more inclined to say plane crash.
Out here in the middle of the countryside, I'm the only person in about a 32 mile radius. Basic electricity supported by a generator, no phone reception up here. A house given to me as a gift by a dying aunt I'd never met, who had no other family. When I left the foster home, it seemed my only option to move up here. And I have, for the past 4 years. I adore my peace of heaven. Writing in the peace and quiet of these hills. Well that was the plan.
However, back to business...If I didn't want to have a corpse lying in my driveway, I would have to help. So I plaster on a brave face and scrape back the damp curls that stick to my sweating face.
I clutch my knife tightly, and slip it under the edge of the letterbox, opening it.
His cries have died out now, replaced by painful moans that make me squirm.
"Hello? Who are you?" I ask in what I hope was an authoritive voice, but the cracks in my voice show the cracks in my façade.
No reply...no words now, just moaning as a watch his body slump further and further towards the ground.
"How did you get here? What's the matter!?" I try again, pressing my mouth close to the opening and shouting.
No reply. Fuck.
I suck in a long deep breath and clutch the door handle tightly. I swing the door open, taking a step back and raising my knife, the gust of wind hits me first, then he hits the floor.
His body crashes through the doorway and collapses in a dirty heap on my clean cream carpet. I let out a horribly girly squeal and fall onto my behind. His outstretched hand inches from my naked toes, both marred by splattering's of his blood.
I stop, sitting motionless, watching for movement.
When I hear a gargled splutter from his mouth, I panic.
This man is going to die...on my floor...right now.
I haul myself on to shaky hands and knees and crawl over. At 7 stone something or other, I struggle to flip him onto his back, but as I grab the edge of his jacket, I manage. Oh... I can see his face better now. I start thinking how peaceful he looks, then halt that thought. It makes me think of cold grey dead people and awkward funerals, and then I see my parent's faces...my sister's face.
He suddenly opens his eyes and looks up at me. I see pain and fear and confusion in the midst of elegant emerald eyes. Intense.
"Are you okay? Can you talk?" I whisper. I don't know why I whisper, but it's all I can manage.
His hair is blonde; I can see it better in this light. It's matted against his skin with blood and sweat. I move a piece out of the corner of one eye instinctively and wait for his reply.
"I..Just...water." He moans, his accent is British, but I can't make out where from. The words seeming to pain him. I wince at the strain in his voice, the blood trickling down his chin from the lip wound he just re-opened.
"Yes! Water! Stay there." I say, stopping to realise how stupid it was...Where is he going to go?
I jump up, closing the still open front door, and dash behind into the kitchen. I fill a glass with water from the tap, seeming to have lost all motor skills, and managing to spray it liberally onto my self and the work surfaces before any makes it in the glass, my feet slip on the wet floor and I grasp the sink to hold myself steady.
I run back to find him where I left him. Obviously. And sink to my knees again by his head.
"Water." I say again. I lift his head as gently as I can in my hand, feeling for any cuts or bumps. Except for a particularly nasty gash across his eyebrow, I think the rest of his head is fine.
But he still makes a pained noise.
I press the glass to his lips and watch as he gulps it down, stopping only for short gasping breaths.
When he is finished I get him more. And he finishes most of that glass too.
"Th...Thank you" He mumbles, his eyes squeezed shut. He's slipping into sleep again.
"I can drive you down to the hospital. Stay there!" I say, already standing to grab my coat of the banister. Trying to keep the thoughts of how long it would take to get him there, out of my head.
"NO!" I hear him, and I turn to see his eyes are wide open now and his bloodied hand out stretched.
"No..." He repeats quieter. The determination in his eyes halts me for a moment.
"You...you're injured, you need a doctor!" I shout pulling on my coat and leaning down to grasp the lapels on his shredded jacket and trying to pull him up.
He grabs my hands in his, they envelope my tiny fingers completely, and I can feel the cool stickiness of the blood.
"Please. I...can't" He whispers, looking right at me now. His eyes bright and pleading. Then he lays back and shuts his eyes again. Those eyes are so familiar, I can't place it. But it warms me.
I struggle internally for a moment. Trying to wonder where this man is from, what happened to him. He seemed adamant about not going to the hospital. He must be a criminal. But he doesn't look like one. I haven't seen many. But he doesn't seem too aggressive. Shit! I didn't think.
Taking the chance as he lays unconscious I edge forward. And using just one finger, I nudge the front of his jacket open, looking for a weapon. When I don't immediately see one, I lean in further, and press my hands against his pockets. Nothing. Nothing but a small business card shaped piece of metal. On the front is an engraved barcode and on the back "Luke Mallard". I pocket that, I don't know why.
I take another deep breath in and reserve myself to helping this man.
Seriously Kate, how the fuck do you get yourself into these situations?
