Matching Rings [h.s]

91

POV: BAYLIN GRIGGS

The time between the moment Maya left the room and the second I was able to untie my ankles felt like a thousand years. I was moving so fucking fast yet I feel like I didn't do it fast enough. My eyes flood with tears while my guilt grows because Zayn's on the floor bleeding and I couldn't do anything to help him until I was untied.

The second I'm free, I dart to the corner of the room, falling beside where he's curled over on the floor. There's a pool of blood, he's losing so much so fast.

"Zayn. Fuck, you're okay." I sit in his blood, not wanting to hurt him but needing to help him sit up. He's groaning, clearly in so much fucking pain. "You're going to be okay, okay? Listen to me, can you sit up for me?"

He just groans louder in response, cursing under his breath and breathing harder than ever. He has his hand clutched over his wound, blood dripping from the stab to his stomach. I remove his hand from his cut shirt, lifting it up to reveal just how bad it really was. It's only about an inch thick, but that knife was at least four inches long so who knows how deep it went. It's at the very edge of his stomach, right where his V-line meets his waist— depending on what angle that knife was held at, a cut in this position could either be nothing, or crucial.

"Come on Zayn, you have to sit up." I cry, tears blocking my vision.

I get my arm around his waist and hoist him to lean his back against the wall. He does his best to help but he's too hurt and weak. He holds his breath as he settles, clearly trying to hold back whatever pain he's in.

His stomach is covered with blood, I quickly help him out of his soaked shirt and immediately bunch it up to use it as a rag to apply pressure on where the blood is coming from.

"Is it bad?" He asks, trying to tilt his head down to see, but I won't remove the balled shirt from it. He puts his hand on my wrist, steadying me from shaking too bad.

"I-I don't, fuck Zayn, I don't-" I'm freaking out, my words can't form properly. I just don't know what to do.

Zayn leans his head back to the wall, shutting his eyes and sucking in a slow breath through his teeth.

"Zayn, look at me, you have to keep looking at me, okay?" I don't want to freak him out, but he's losing a lot of blood. Like a lot, I don't know what else to do besides keep him awake.

"I'm fine, Baylin." He turns to look at me, opening his tired eyes, "I just need a minute to- ahh," He groans in pain when he tries to shift his position, "I just need a minute."

"Okay, it's okay. We have time, just don't move, please." My crying has become hysterical, which probably isn't doing any good for the situation but I can't help it.

"Help! Someone fucking help us!" I scream, knowing the room is apparently soundproof but it doesn't hurt to try. "We're locked in here!"

"Baylin, stop." Zayn shakes his head, "No one can hear you." His voice is so insanely weak, he's practically whispering.

I cry harder, feeling my pants soak up his blood. I glance at the shirt I'm us using to hold his wound, but that's soaked too— completely dripping. His skin is cold, chills scatter over his bare torso and there's smeared blood all over his chest. I'm covered in blood as well, my arms, my legs, my face— somehow.

I can't tell what's his blood and what's mine, my cut on my palm is still bleeding a good amount but my brain has canceled out the pain so that I can care for Zayn.

His shirt fills more and more with blood, it's not stopping. I toss it to the side and strip my out T-shirt off and begin using it, putting more pressure on his cut causing him to wince.