Hand of the Host

Forgive my slowness in updating. My portentuous paranoia was turned to prophecy. Sufficed to say, things got hairy.

My new visitors arrived on the 10th and things quickly went wrong. Their names are Peter and Natalie and they were formerly part of a blog called The Refugees. Peter suffered a grotesque and highly debilitating injury to his arm just over a month ago and Natalie had warned me that an amputation might be necessary. Damn right it was fucking necessary, the kid was on his deathbed when they got here, but still conscious enough to cry and scream and beg for me not to cut his arm off until I put a chloroform-soaked rag over his face. Not the ideal solution, not the most elegant, but it was all I had to work with. That’s also a fairly accurate description of the amputation but I only had so much I could do, I’m a neurosurgeon and a rusty one at that. Natalie didn’t enjoy participating either but I needed an extra pair of hands or else Peter was going to die.

So anyway, that’s the situation here at the moment. Peter is unconscious, obviously, and on a very aggressive course of antibiotics and analgaesics. Things are still touch-and-go; Natalie won’t leave his bedside even though she has a nasty cough and I’m worried about her giving him an infection. I’ve put up with so far but I’m seriously considering kicking her out of his room if she doesn’t leave voluntarily soon. I’m fighting hard for that boy and I’m not letting him die because of whatever guilt complex-induced psuedoinfatuation she’s got herself convinced is some kind of love for him.

On top of that, I’ve seen the Tree Walker around. He was watching me when I burned Peter’s arm in the backyard. Seemed mighty fucking pleased for something with no facial expressions.


2 comments on “Hand of the Host

  1. Elaine says:

    Well fuck. I’d hoped they would find help before this. Send them my best wishes, yeah?

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