Southern Heart by Madison, Natasha (best fiction novels .txt) 📕

"You're nothing." I heard him right beside me. "Fucking nothing but a worthless piece of shit." He kicked me and walked away. I waited until I knew he was gone before opening my eye and looking at the spot where he dropped the knife. It took everything in me to move my legs to drag the knife to me. I worked with cutting my hands free. The pain in my side had me seeing stars. I waited until the darkness had filled the trees, knowing full well he would probably not come out. I waited to gather my strength until I could make my escape.

I didn’t know how long I had. I didn’t know what day it was. I didn’t know what time it was. The only thing I knew was that I wasn’t going to fucking die here. Not today.

Chapter 5

Chelsea

"Showtime," I tell them and turn around, grabbing a pair of gloves and my scissors. I get close to him, and only then do I see how dirty he is. His jeans have dried mud on them. I start cutting up the pants on one leg and then the other, then peel the pants from his legs, but the dried blood pulls his skin. He moans out in pain when it pulls and a couple of the wounds open. "Fuck," I say and look down at his legs. "Five open wounds," I say and then cut his shirt up the middle.

His white shirt is now a dusty brown, and the part where he was shot is a rusty color. "Okay, let's see what happened here." I pull the shirt, and the stickiness of the blood sticks to the white shirt. "I need to see if it really came out the back." I look at Ethan, who just nods at me. He lifts him by the side, and I see the exit wound. "Well, it went right through." I walk over to the bag Casey brought in that is now laid out on top of the desk in the room. My hands start to shake a bit as I doubt myself.

"Chelsea." Quinn calls my name, and I look at him. He is one of my best friends in the world and my cousin. He also knows me better than most people. "You graduated at the top of your class for a reason." I just nod at him as he turns and walks out of the room. Casey comes to stand in front of the bed.

"What can I do to help?" he asks, stepping forward to watch what I’m doing.

"I need you to be my right-hand person when I need something," I say, looking down at the gunshot wound. I’ve only ever seen one gunshot wound in my whole career. The last time, I was an intern, so all I had to do was watch. I look up at Mayson, seeing his one eye sealed shut and already purple. Even though I washed his face at Ethan’s, it’s still streaked with mud. I look over to see that Ethan is dragging the desk to me now, and Casey has turned and walked out of the room. I lean down and whisper in his ear, "Don’t you fucking die on me, Mayson." I stand now and close my eyes. Looking up, I see my father standing in the doorway. "I’m good."

"Oh, I know you are," he says. "You got that from your mother," he says with tears in his eyes. My uncle Jacob stands beside him with his arms folded over his chest, smirking at me. He usually does that when he knows I’m about to show everyone when I’m boss. It started when I was a kid, and Quinn bet me that I couldn’t ride the mechanical bull as long as him. Well, he was wrong. I rode it longer. Forget that I broke my arm to prove him wrong.

"I got the water," Casey says to me, and I look over to see him carrying a white bin with warm water.

"Let’s get the party started." I say that every single time I get a trauma. I put an IV in him with a bag of saline to keep him hydrated. "I need something to hold up the IV fluid." I look at Quinn, and he nods at me, turning and walking out of the room as Jacob walks in, carrying an ECG machine. My mouth hangs open as I look at both of them.

"So I’m supposed to believe that you having an ECG machine just lying around the barn?" They both share a look. "Like that’s normal." I walk over and hook Mayson up. Placing the gray peg on his finger. The machine starts to monitor his heartbeat. "It’s slow,” I tell them. "But steady."

"At least it’s beating," Ethan says. "Here." He hands me the blue surgical cover, and I look down at my shirt, seeing that his blood is all over me. I slip my hands in and slip on another pair of clean gloves. I turn, and everything else fades away. I block out everyone in the room and the only thing I focus on is Mayson. Quinn comes back in with a stick and a hanger. Tying it to the side of the bed, he hangs up the saline bag.

I clean off the wound as gently as I can and look up to see if he wakes up. When I don’t see his eyes flutter, I continue seeing to the bullet hole. The whole time, questions are going through my head. Who would do this to him? Why would they do this to him? Where did he crawl out from? How long was he kept? From the look at the welts on his wrists, he was held captive for days. When was the last time someone spoke to him? How long would he have been missing before someone asked questions? My head swirls as I make