Time to Vomit?

There isn't any.


Sweet mother of Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell just fell on my doorstep? What the hell just developed in this crazy life I share? What the fuck did we just invite into our small, travelling troupe? What. The. Fuck?


Maybe I should step back and tell a story here. If I could tell a complete story, I would. But I can't right now. I don't have all the motherfucking details. Here: I'll paint my half of the picture for you.


Lis has been insisting that Blake and I have some "us" time. We've all been in the same room for the past however long now and she's been feeling like she's imposing (she's not, but it's how she feels) so she insists she goes out alone and she insists that she'll be okay. It's only after she's completely convinced me she'll be okay that we let her go out and do her own thing. That was about 5 hours ago. She left, and on her end of the picture, I imagine she went to a quaint little cafe or quiet little bookstore or peaceful little deli. That's to her taste. I don't actually know because she's practically cata-fucking-tonic. But she'd enjoy that sort of thing, so that's what I imagine her intent was tonight.


On our end of the picture, we have a nice little romantic in the hotel picnic with candlelight and wine and cheap sushi we bought from the grocery, and we're happy for the moment if only because we're blissfully unaware. So things are turning into a nice night between Blake and I, and because we were assured that Lissie would be okay, we let go of the thoughts that might hold us back.


And let me be honest. We weren't holding back. It's been a long time. I'm sure you get the idea and I'm sure I don't need to go into detail. So here we are in the hotel room, highly distracted, when there's a loud THUMP at the door, and I can't be too sure it's our door, but it's a really loud thump. I'm not going to take any chances.


So I find the nearest shirt available, throw it on and open the door to find a slumped Lis falling against my bare legs. And she's bloody. She's bloody and I can barely hear her rasp an "I'm sorry," - that's so Lis - apologizing when she's bleeding out on the floor. Well, there goes us time. I'm not even thinking about it when I'm dragging Lis into the bathroom and fetching the first aid/sewing kit. Nope. I see a nice gash there on her rib cage, right side, nice and deep. It's not bleeding too bad at this point, but my guess is because she doesn't have much blood left in her.


Clean cloth for the wound? Check. Have Blake run for ice for numbing? Check (even if she's not responding to much anyway). Foreign materials removed from the wound? My least favorite part, and check. Sanitized needles? Check. Thread? Check. 14 stitches later the wound looks pretty clean. Daddy taught me well. With Blake's help we manage to get her into her bed and between the two of us we get some fluid in her. It's easier said then done. And now we can only hope she wakes up.


A note for when Lis wakes up, because she's going to wake up: make sure the girl eats more (and keeps more down). She's even skinnier shirtless than I thought she'd be. It's worrisome.


On another note, it seems that Crispy will no longer be an issue, view Case 1C. Apparently we're not a threat. That's a good sign. For now, I'll take it. I figured Crispy was the culprit, but I wasn't exactly thinking about it when I was stitching Lis up. I don't like this road we're on. Not one bloody bit.