"Be brave," he said. And then he cut off my wing.
It hurt so much, I pitched forward involuntarily and cracked my head
against the tile. It hurt so much I bit through two thicknesses of
towel. It hurt so much my legs went to mush and I began to sit down
quickly, like I was fainting.
He caught me, under my armpits, and held me up, and I felt something icy
pressed to where my wing had been -- I closed my eyes, but I heard the
leathery thump as my wing hit the tile floor, a wet sound -- and gauzy
fabric was wrapped around my chest, holding the icy towel in place over
the wound, once twice thrice, between my tits.
"Hold still," he said. And he cut off the other one.
I screamed this time, because he brushed the wound he'd left the first
time, but I managed to stay upright and to not crack my head on
anything. I felt myself crying but couldn't hear it, I couldn't hear
anything, nothing except a high sound in my ears like a dog whistle.
He kissed my cheek after he'd wound a second bandage, holding a second
cold compress over my second wound. "You're a very brave girl," he
said. "Come on."
He led me into the living room, where he pulled the cushions off his
sofa and opened it up to reveal a hide-a-bed. He helped me lie down on
my belly, and arranged pillows around me and under my head, so that I
was facing the TV.
"I got you movies," he said, and held up a stack of DVD rental boxes
from Martian Signal.
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