GLADIATOR (under heavy editing)

V

The noise coming from the ventilator that was moving left and right, a poor attempt to refresh the air inside the dirty dark room, only disturbed gained from it, driving him crazier than his actual situation, the smell of tobacco almost covering the solid metallic smell coming from the used gauzes on the nightstand, also the sheets that were covered in significant stains of blood, giving shivers to anyone looking at the grotesque scene, that seemed more like a massacre.

The walls were covered in moisture, adding another disgusting smell to the existing one. However, it was soon covered when he decided to pour the whiskey on his injury, another poor attempt to sterilize the wound, an injury for which he needed a doctor.

Grabbing the scalpel that he bought from the black market, he opened with his mouth the packaging; without hesitating twice, he started opening the gunshot wound, hissing in insupportable pain, his hand fetched the pillow near him, into which he started vigorously biting, and here it goes another failed attempt to deviate his attention from the pain he felt from the scalpel that was cutting open the wound.

Someone must tell him about anesthesia, but he perhaps couldn't afford it or find it.

To give his pain a break, he lighted the umpteenth cigarette; the nicotine helped ease his situation, but not his heart rate, which was more than 150 bpm, worsening the case; he opted for the damned tobacco.

Ignorant.

His hand crushed the cigarette in the ashtray without bothering about hygiene, as he didn't even think about washing his now dirty hands from the smoke; he rushed to the following package, taking out from it a "Kelly Forceps" into which he finally poured before using, some rubbing alcohol, that he seemed to finally have learned about its presence in the black plastic bag.

This time, he prepared his mind for what it's going to come next, sipping the whiskey straight from the bottle, attempting to use some primitive anesthetic methods; he stopped a bit when he felt his arm losing force, almost dropping the bottle to the ground, now, sweat was dripping from his face and neck, his situation was getting worst to say the less.

The pillow found its way to his mouth once again; he bit on it as his tomorrow depended only on that, nearing the forceps to his wound that was located in his lower abdomen; luckily, the bullet was still visible as it didn't penetrate deep, which could have resulted in organ damage, giving him a view on the situation without needing a CT-scan, which was indeed not an option for a man who couldn't visit the hospital. This man opted for surgery DYI.

The forceps touched the bullet from the first attempt; his strong hand was almost more substantial than the pain that resulted from the pressure the latter caused on the wound when he took out the bullet.

Such a strong-minded person.

The blood that was blocked by the bullet started flowing out heavily, forcing him to speed up the process, grabbing handy the surgical staplers, and suturing the wound carefully before patching it, covering it from any potential infections.

Infection that could have already taken place, seeing the lousy job he did.

The guy leaned down on the bed, almost fainting from the intense pain and the traumatic event, which wasn't a first for him; he was practically used to those kinds of events; the slight difference is that no one was by his side to take care of his wound this time, not even a comforting word, just silence, just pain, just him.