Hatchetfield Stories

You've La Dee Dah'ed Your Last Day

FUN FACT: I rarely come up with the ending of a oneshot before I start writing it. Most of the time I just go hmm am I in the mood for death or happy today, and that's what I'm going with. However, today's mood is definitely... interesting.

Also, I do not know a single thing about guns. I am ✨European✨.

TRIGGER WARNINGS:
-Death
-Medical stuff
-Cauterization
-Field medicine

*** *** ***

The ringing in her ears made Emma want to cover them, but her hands were preoccupied clutching her bleeding leg.

The helicopter crashed. Great.

Barely aware of what she was doing or why, she tied her bow around her leg, biting her lip as she did.

As soon as her vision cleared, she looked around. He should be here. Where is he?

Her heart skipped a beat as her eyes fell on him. Paul was still in the helicopter, a couple feet away from her, hanging limply in his seat, blood covering his face and clothes, and his arm seemed to have done a full 180.

Emma wanted to cry. But she didn't. Instead, she forced herself to sit up, crawling towards the helicopter.

When she didn't feel his pulse, she didn't cry. She didn't scream. She couldn't afford to lose those precious seconds of blood still being inside her body.

*** *** ***

Going to the nearest house was an agonizing process, but as soon as she reached the front yard and found a key under a flowerpot, she went inside.

Fuck morals. This is the apocalypse, for fuck's sake.

It didn't take her long to find a first aid kit. Or maybe it took hours. Emma wasn't aware of much more than the blinding pain radiating from her thigh.

She turned the box upside down, immediately reaching for a bottle of antiseptic and pouring it over her leg, letting out a strained cry as she did.

Next, she grabbed a suture kit, before removing the makeshift tourniquet.

Her hands were trembling like an earthquake as she threaded the needle, her swarming vision not doing much to help. When she finally managed to get the string through the eye of the needle, she could barely keep her eyes open.

She took a deep breath, before positioning herself so she had a good view of her leg.

Her vision blurred when she grabbed her leg to hold it in place, and the needle fell onto the floor in what seemed like slow motion.

Yep, that thing wasn't sterile anymore.

"Fuuuuuck."

There was no time to beat herself up, so Emma got to her feet, and dragged herself through the house, opening every drawer and cabinet to find what she was looking for. An iron. She plugged it into the nearest outlet and let herself slide down the wall next to it, not even bothering to go back to the living room.

She tapped her fingers on the floor, trying to distract herself as the iron heated up, looking at the trail of blood she'd left behind.

The small 'click' that indicated that the iron that reached the temperature made her jump, and she grabbed the handle with trembling hands, biting down on the rag in her mouth.

The sound that left her when she pressed the iron against the open wound barely qualified as human, and she could barely see anything through the blur of her vision.

Her mind yelled at her to stop, but she kept going, burning the wound shut. The smell of burning flesh quickly filled the room, making her nauseous. She squeezed her eyes shut as she pressed the iron against her leg one last time, before setting it down next to her, taking a moment to blink away the tears and calm down her racing heart.