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I’m not really sure what I plan to do when I see the intruder. I know that I won’t be able to bring myself to actually hurt someone. I am a nurse, after all. But maybe brandishing it at them will be enough to scare them off. It’s a plan that makes little sense, but my brain is at capacity.
I lift the wine bottle like it’s a baseball bat and tiptoe through the house, listening for more noises. I check the two spare bedrooms as the most obvious places to look for something to steal, but they’re empty. For a second, I think I imagined the noises, but just as I turn back toward the kitchen, I hear something again. This time, I can tell it’s coming from the master bedroom’s en suite.
I rush in there with the wine bottle poised to attack, but I am met with a horrific scene. Instead of the masked intruder I expected to be rifling through my things, a man lies passed out and bleeding on my bathroom floor.
All my nursing instincts take over, and I drop to my knees, quickly reaching for his wrist to check his pulse. It’s slow but steady, and while this man is clearly injured, the fact that he is still alive is promising.
Since his top half is bare, it’s easy to see the wound on his bicep. It looks like he was trying to bandage it when he lost consciousness. I quickly grab a clean towel from a drawer and apply pressure to his bleeding arm. For a moment, I think he’s starting to come around because his eyes flutter and his body tenses slightly, but he falls slack against the tub again.
With my free hand, I reach for the sterile pads scattered on his lap still in their wrappers. I manage to get a couple open and replace the towel with the cotton pads. I’m almost certain he will need stitches, but this will do for now. His lack of consciousness is far more concerning.
“I need to call for an ambulance,” I mutter to myself, looking around for the man’s phone since mine is still dead in my bag. The man’s eyes snap open suddenly and meet mine, sucking the breath from my lungs as I gaze into intense hazel eyes.
“No,” he whispers weakly. “D-don’t call.”
Yeah, right. “I am not letting you die on my bathroom floor,” I scold gently, reaching for his jacket and digging my fingers into it for his phone, gasping when they close around a metal object that I immediately realize is a gun.
I pull my hand back quickly and swallow hard before digging around in the other pocket, but it’s empty. With no way to call for help, I consider my options quickly. I made an oath to save lives, and I cannot in good conscience not help this man.
His eyes flutter open again, and with a burst of energy, he reaches with his uninjured arm for my hand, grasping it tightly. For someone who’s clearly exhausted and in pain, he really has a strong grip on my hand.
“Please. Help me.” His words are slightly slurred, but clear enough.
I don’t know what is going on or how he came to be in my house of all places, but my instincts are screaming at me to help him. There is something earnest in his expression that I can’t ignore. I want to argue and remind him that the hospital is his best chance, but it’s obvious I won’t convince him. It makes sense if his wounds have anything to do with the gun in his pocket. Hospitals are required to report any gunshot-related or suspicious injuries. He wouldn’t have broken into my house if he wasn’t involved in something criminal. Still, something about his presence, despite his massive frame and the defined muscles of his torso and arms, makes me feel safe.
Shit, I am going to be in so much trouble for this.
“Okay,” I say, reaching for the open first-aid kit on the bathroom counter. His hand drops from mine to rest on my thigh as I take out the antiseptic wipes, scissors, more sterile pads, bandages, and a staple suture gun. As I arrange everything I’ll need on a clean towel before pulling on a pair of latex gloves, I whisper a silent prayer of thanks that my aunt, who’d been a traveling nurse, had kept this kit after her retirement—and that I hadn’t thrown it out when she’d passed away.
I’ve done this plenty of times before, and even with limited equipment, I manage to clean, close, and dress his wound quickly. The man barely makes a sound as I tend to him. He’ll need antibiotics to reduce the risk of infection, but there’s nothing I can do about that now. I’ll have to try again to convince him to go to the hospital when he’s more lucid.
“I’m totally going to lose my nursing license,” I whisper, more to myself than the man on my bathroom floor. To him, I ask, “Can you stand? We should get you someplace more comfortable than the tile floor.”
“I think so,” he says, then uses his good arm to brace against the tub as he stands. He’s unsteady, so I dart forward, wrap my arms around his waist, and drape his arm over my shoulders.
Once he’s on his feet, I give him a moment to get his bearings before slowly helping him out of the bathroom. I consider taking him to one of the spare bedrooms or even the couch, but I’m not convinced he’d make it that far, and he is much too large for me to move. Instead, I guide him over to my bed and help him settle against the headboard. Once he’s seated, I check his wound to make sure the movement hasn’t torn anything open, but the staples are holding nicely.
“How is your head feeling?” I ask.
“Like it’s being split open. The light hurts.”
I move quickly to turn off the overhead light that I’d turned on when I’d come searching for an intruder, leaving the bathroom light on, but pulling the door halfway closed so I have enough light to see.
“Did you hit your head? You might have a concussion. How’s your vision?”
“It’s better than it was,” he tells me. “And yeah, I took a blow to the back of my head. I’ve been in and out of consciousness a few times.”
Shit. Head wounds are not something to mess with. This man really needs a hospital. He must see the look in my eyes even in the dim lighting because he reaches out and snags my wrist.
“Promise me,” the man demands, his glazed eyes boring into mine. “Promise me you won’t call.”
“You need to go to the hospital. If you have brain trauma or bleeding, you could die. If something happens to you—”
“No,” he cuts me off. “No matter what, you can’t call. I’ll be fine.”
He’s clearly tired and struggling to stay awake, and for some reason, it hurts me to read the desperation in his eyes. It chips at my resolve. Despite my better judgment, I nod. “I promise. But I am going to wake you up throughout the night. If you aren’t immediately responsive after the first attempt, I’m calling for an ambulance. I’m not letting you die in my house.”
He nods reluctantly. “Fair enough.” It seems he was waiting for my reassurance because his head finally falls against the pillow, and he’s out cold in seconds.
