Prompts

sloppy bandages | self-done first aid | makeshift splint

Chapter 11: "911, what's your emergency?"

His hands shake. 

Dick takes a breath. He feels his lungs expand. His chest rises and falls. He breathes out. 

His back stings. 

One thing at a time. That’s all. Just one step at a time. 

Stand up. Take a breath. Move slowly, one step, then another, to the bare metal sink in the wall. Turn the water on. 

He dips his hand under the stream. He feels it turn from lukewarm to cold. Not cold enough, but better than nothing. 

Better than nothing.

His back stings. 

Dick cups his hand under the spigot. He collects a handful of water and splashes it against his bare torso. Cold water runs over small, round electrical burns. 

It hurts. He wets his hand and splashes more water over the signature marks littering his rib cage. It hurts. 

What’s the next step? 

The thought floats through his head without much effort. It sounds like Bruce. It is something Bruce would say. Though Dick hasn’t needed Bruce to talk him through emergency medical treatment in many years. 

There’s a better way to do this. He tears a corner off of the bedsheet and soaks it in the sink. Then he presses that to the marks on his torso. It helps, a little. 

With his other hand, he pulls a little antibacterial soap from the dispenser on the wall. He’s been rationing it, even since he realized that he still had access to whatever was left in the cell. They didn’t take the bed, or the sheets, or the soap. At least he has that. 

The soap foams under water. He rubs it over the marks. He wets the cloth again. He dabs soap on it. Then he reaches up—slowly, slowly—and presses it over his shoulder. 

His back hurts. 

He knows the whip broke skin. At some point—he felt it. He doesn’t know exactly where. His whole back is a canvas of pain, rippling and burning under his skin. He can’t reach every part of his back. Only the top, over his shoulder blades, and the small of his back. He can’t stretch to reach the rest of it. It hurts too much. 

He rubs soap and water over as much as he can reach. He feels it trickle down his skin, into the waistband of his suit—the lower half of his suit, still clinging to his legs. The kevlar-mesh weave is soaked with blood. And now, with water. 

It’s cold. He tucks his arms close to his chest. When the water is mostly gone, dried off or run down into his suit, he goes back to the bed. He lifts the torn sheet, folds it in half, and wraps it around his torso. 

He hears something. He turns too fast and sways as he faces the door. He tenses, holding the sheet over his body, as if it could protect him. 

No one is there. 

The hallway is empty. No one is standing at the door. Dick takes a deep breath. His chest opens. Air fills his lungs. 

He ties the sheet around his torso with shaking hands.