Imagining Frost

(12) Black Ice

Just a little something. ;)

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Gypsy's bled purple!

            "Get it together, Heather!" I was anxiously ranting to myself as I sorted through our medical cabinet in my home with slippery, purple fingers!

                        Saving someone's life was nerve wracking, don't get me wrong, but saving a creature that I had seen painted in story books was in an entirely different plane of nerve-wracking. I started to profusely sweat--so much so, that I had to rip my sweatshirt over my head and throw water onto my face. Not only could I not only find gauze or band aids, I couldn't even find a rag to stop the bleeding on his wound, that flooded along my floors like thick lilac river. I told myself over and over again to breath normally so that I would not have a panic attack. When I was little I was prone to them.

            How was I suppose to stop his bleeding?

            I observed the Gypsy laying on limp on the ground and bit my nails. All I could hear is your heart pounding in your ears and the lethargic slide of my feet as I reached for my abandoned sweatshirt.

            The thick liquid flowing from his was twisting and knotting up my stomach. I wasn't prepared for something so insane as finding an injured, mythical creature on the road. I was completely out of my comfort zone. I was still battling with my mind, which was telling me I was dreaming. I knew I wasn't dreaming, it all felt too real. Some people were born to be doctors and veterinarians and deal with blood and organs. I was born to paint on my canvas.

            The fact that I had been in the car with a creature that had to be at least fifty times more beautiful as any person I had ever met and as tall as the Empire State Building.

            Perhaps that second part was slightly exaggerated.

            I lay my sweatshirt into his wound and applied pressure. Frost's eyes burst open and his pupils dilated wildly with alertness. Now fully awake, he muttered a loud foreign word directly at me and reached for the sweatshirt. My heart started to pound with fear. Was he going to hurt me? His fingers were long and his hands were large. He was twice size.

I had absolutely no idea what he was shouting, but whatever it was, it sounded vulgar. It wasn't like Spanish, where you can pick out a few words that are cognates, or simply nod your head vigorously like you understand the person speaking because you heard "vaminos" just like on Dora the Explorer said. Sometimes you could just tell when someone was letting out their verbal rage.

His language was the most complicated, tongue involving language I had ever heard. In fact, I couldn't help but stare at his tongue as he cried out, forgetting for a moment that I was supposed to be saving him. But seriously, if the guy hadn't been smothered in purple blood, that tongue thing he was doing to curse me out would have gotten me seriously hot and bothered.

            Getting him into the house was absolute luck. The Gypsy obviously had used every ounce of his strength to help but still had to lean much of his weight on me through the garage and up a the stairs into the house.

            Through all of the shock of the situation, I realized I had set him down on my mother's favorite loveseat. That didn't matter. Nothing mattered but Frost.

            After I situated him on the couch and got up to look for first-aid supplies, I felt his burning hot hand on my leg, stopping me. Frost said weakly, "I'm not afraid to die." When his hand lightly touched my arm and he made an effort to look me in the eyes, I had to fight back tears. "You shouldn't be afraid as well."