Riley
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
I was pulled from my slumber by that incessant rapping. I forced myself from my bed, wrapping myself in a sheer lace robe that showed my lingerie. I made my way out of my bedroom, through my small kitchen and into the living room to the door. I opened it with the deadbolt still on, just enough to see my late night visitors. Two men stood there, propping up a third younger specimen between them. He did not look good at all. "Gonna let us in?"
I sighed, closing the door so I could undo the deadbolt. I opened the door and let the three drag themselves in. "Put 'em on the bed to your left." I watched as they left him in an awkward lump on the bed. "What do you have in mind for payment?"
The men sneered, each taking out a long machete. "This good enough for you."
I rolled my eyes, opening my robe enough for them to see the revolver in my garter. "Care to make a wager on whose faster?" Their faces paled. I smiled, "payment?"
The one who spoke began to grumble, tossing me a glass jar of vibrant blue liquid. "Kid's all yours after." The two hurried left out my door, letting it slam shut behind them. I smirked, looking the jar over. My stock of Bliss was getting low. I put the bolts back in place before moving to the kid. I placed the Bliss on the nearest table before I took the kid in. He looked to be quiet tall – at least a foot taller than myself, and I stood at about five three. Dirty blonde hair that came to just over his shoulders, very dirty clothing and skin. His face was contorted in pain. I began to strip him down to his underwear, making sure to look over his body for any signs that he had faced a crank. Thankfully there was nothing. I left him for some clean cloths and a basin of water to try to clean him up. I placed everything on the side table, wetting a cloth and began to work at scrubbing the dirt and grim from as much of him as I could.
After I had cleaned his face, he did not look half bad. Maybe sixteen or seventeen – about my age then. Once I had finished cleaning the kid up I placed a clean, damp cloth on his forehead. If he did not have the flare, then the only option had to be some form of cold. I reached under the bed and pulled out one of my kits, opening it in one fluid motion. I pulled out a syringe that I had prefilled with a dose of morphine and injected it into his arm. His face seemed to instantly relax, leaving just the slight shaking and sweating. I pulled the blanket over him, adjusting the pillow below his head.
I ran a hand through my half head off head of hair as I moved across the room to an old black sofa, throwing a blanket over myself and settled in for the remainder of the night.