When you have writers block, the only thing you can do is push through it, and write write write write write write write. Really. That many times. And even if what you write is crappy and completely unusable, you've got to do it. Because if you don't everything you write for the rest of your life will be crappy and unusable. I'm not kidding. This wouldn't be the first time it's happened.
But it doesn't make it any easier. I hate it when I write something, and then I go back and reread it, and it's terrible. It's the worst feeling in the world. But it's better to go back and read it myself than let other people read something I think is horrible.
And that is why I haven't been writing very long or informative or crap-your-pants-hilarious blog entries recently. Writer's block is a bitch.
But I'm taking my own advice and writing through it. I have the next installment of the storyforwhichIhaven'tcomeupwithanameforyet. The characters remain nameless so far, too. Actually, I think I might leave them nameless. The only reason I want names is because it would make good conversation in the story. So, if you all have any ideas about names, please feel free to leave a comment with your suggestions. Until then, or until I stop my laziness and do an Internet search for some names myself, they will remain without names.
Without further ado, here is the third part:

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She had laid out all of the supplies she would need to bandage him up, but she kept rearranging them nervously, hedging around actually asking any questions. Of course she was curious, but once she started talking to him, it would be harder to forget that all of this had happened. And that's what she wanted more than anything right now: to forget.

Her mind was working so hard, she was sure he could hear it droning. It buzzed with questions she was just dying to ask. Things that she needed to know. But that wasn't the way she was; she didn't push people. She'd been pushed too many times, and she wasn't ever going to do that to somebody else. She would just have to be patient, and maybe he would explain away the mysteries. Or maybe he wouldn't.

But he wouldn't be able to tell her anything if he was unconscious or worse. That was definitely where he was headed. She sighed. She didn't know anything about first aid, and even if she did, his injuries far surpassed any first aid skills. He needed a doctor. Sighing again, she wondered why he hadn't wanted to go to a hospital. It was more abnormal behavior to add to the list. This whole day had been abnormal.

Looking at the various things laid out on the edge of the bathtub, she was debating on whether or not she should ask him something. An easy question....she could allow herself that. Clearing her throat, she asked, "So why don't you want to go to a hospital?"

She glanced up at him and stopped when their eyes connected. He was looking at her in such an intense way, probing her with his eyes, it was almost palpable. She glanced down at her hands, which she was wringing nervously. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe she should just do what she had to and then send him away. If she didn't, she would get herself in too deep to get out again, and then where would she be? She had just opened her mouth to say that, never mind,

she didn't want to know after all, when he spoke. Too late.

"It would draw unnecessary attention, which is something I don't need."

She couldn't stop herself. "Why not?"

She held her breath, but he just shrugged. "Is that what you really want to know?"

Startled, her eyes flew to his face. "Why would I ask otherwise?"

Again, he shrugged, but his eyes never left her face. This time, she didn't avert hers, and they

sat for a moment, just staring at each other, willing the other to share their secrets. He never looked away, and eventually she became uncomfortable and gave in. Her hands were a great thing to be studying today.

She should probably start tending to his wound. Reaching out a hand, she picked up an alcohol wipe, hoping it was the right thing to be using. After all of this was done, she was going to take a class so she could get certified in first aid. As she tore the package open, she said, "Take off your shirt please."

She didn't look at him as he did it, so when she finally lifted her eyes, she was in for a surprise.

It was the biggest cliche in the book. Things like this only happened in movies and romance

novel, and she wasn't in either of those. But even so, she couldn't stop herself from reacting exactly like she was supposed to.

First, she blanched. His torso was covered in blood. It was smeared along his side, dried and crusty. Fresh blood was starting to ooze, and she realized that the shirt he had removed had stanched most of the bleeding. Should she get closer to inspect it , to gage how bad the damage was? Shuddering, an image popped into her head. She could just imagine herself looking and seeing all of his organs, alive and pumping, spilling out of the cut onto her tiled bathroom floor. The visualization was enough to drain all of the blood from her head, leaving her dizzy.

She had to distract herself, so she tore her eyes from the gaping hole and moved up. This was the second phase of the expected behavior in a situation like this. Because she found herself staring at his chest, and as embarrassing as it was, she swooned. Okay, maybe she didn't swoon, but it was something very close. Feeling her face heat up, she blinked, and looked down at her hands, as quickly as she could. It was surprising that he was in such good physical condition, seeing as he was living on the streets. Or was he? Again, she could feel the flush settled over her cheeks.

If she had know that she would react this way once he took his shirt off, she would never have asked him to do it. Except....oh, yeah. He was bleeding to death. That thought sobered her up, and she finally met his eyes. There was an amused twinkle there, but his expression was wary.

She gulped, and again focused on his injury.

She gripped the alcohol wipe firmly in her hand. She took a deep breath and said, "Sorry, this might hurt a little."

He gave her a look that clearly said, "you've got to be kidding me." And then she realized to late what he meant. The alcohol might sting, but it would be nothing compared to the creating of the

wound.

Feeling stupid, she said, "Oh. Sorry." She blushed.

She was getting tired of feeling so stupid today. It wasn't like her to act like she was. The only thing she could blame was this boy. He had showed up, and ever since, she'd been behaving like a complete idiot.

She shook her head, chasing away any thoughts that would distract her from her task. Then she slowly brought the wipe toward his side. Her fingers were shaking. She really didn't have any idea of what she was doing. Suddenly, he was reaching forward, taking the the alcohol wipe from her hand, brushing their fingers together in the process. He lingered for just a second before pulling away. And then he started cleaning himself off.

She looked down at her knees, letting her hair fall to cover her face. "I'm sorry. I have no idea what I'm doing. I've never even bandaged a scraped knee before."

He nodded, but didn't look up from what he was doing. "It's okay."

"No. It's not. I'm so stupid."

At this, he did look up, capturing her gaze. He held it for a moment before he spoke. "You're not stupid. You're very brave."

Her eyes grew wide in surprise, and she bowed her head again. But she could feel his eyes still on her, and it was a heavy look, holding her in place and also warming her. She didn't think she could move if she tried.

The second he went back to cleaning his injury, she knew it. The feeling was gone, and she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

It was quiet for a long time. At several points he had to rip open another package of wipes. She moved the trash can over to him so he would have a place to put all of the soiled ones. She was so used to the silence that when he spoke again, she jumped. "Why are you so hard on yourself all of the time?"

Her head snapped up and she looked at him. She really looked at him, and it was like she was seeing him for the first time. His expression was neutral, him mouth pressed into a straight line. She would have thought that he was completely indifferent, and that his question was just a way to make conversation, except for one thing. His eyes were what betrayed his true curiosity. They were looking at her intently, waiting for her reply, blazing with each second that passed, as if he couldn't wait to hear what she would say next.

She couldn't believe this. It was amazing and scary and crazy at the same time. "Why do you care?" Why would he care about anything concerning her? Who was she to him?

He lost his mask of neutrality, and it gave way to a spark of frustration. "I hardly know you, and yet you're the most interesting person I know. I can't understand anything you do, or why you do it. You aren't like anybody else I've ever met, and yet you don't stick out. I want to know who you are, and why you are the way you are. And I don't know why I care, why I feel this inexplicable draw to you. But I do, and every second I spend with you, my curiosity gets stronger. That's why."

Her eyes were the size of saucers, and she could feel them getting bigger. It was the most he had said to her since she'd met him, and it was the most shocking thing by far. Her mind reeled, and she had no idea what to say to him. Everything was a complete blank.

He frowned at her, and then asked, "So, are you going to answer my question or not?"

All she could do was stare at him. Then she looked down at her hands, something she was doing a lot today. She heard him sigh. Looking up, she asked, "Are you done cleaning the blood off? If you are, we should wrap you up so that the bleeding will stop."

He nodded, never taking his eyes from her face. He looked pale.

She stood and picked up the gauze strips. Then she cleared a little place for her to sit next to him on the tub's ledge. He had turned his head to keep her in his sight, and she was turning her head to avoid keeping him in hers. She picked up a scissors and cut a long strip of the gauze; she wadded it up. Handing it to him she said, "Put this on it to stop the bleeding."

He nodded and did what he was told.

She took a deep breath and shifted so that she could place one end of the gauze on the wound. "Hold this," she said. Taking the roll of gauze, she pulled it across his front, and then under his arm and around his back. She moved her other hand to meet the first, so that she could pull it around front again. But she stopped for a second, noticing that her arms were completely encircling him. As if reading her thoughts, he stiffened. She looked up into his face. Then, slowly, he reached down and touched her forearm, holding her in place. She blinked, and then quickly pulled the gauze around, making a complete circle around his middle.

She repeated this four or five more times, until a thick band of gauze was wrapped around him. She was careful not to touch him again, to just stick to her job and make sure he wasn't going to bleed to death in her bathroom. Once she was done, she busied herself with putting all of the first aid supplies back into the box she had taken them from. The whole time he watched her, but she didn't look up. She wasn't sure if she wanted to see the expressions playing across his face.

When everything was put in its place, she stood, picking up the box. She said, "I'm going to go put this away, and then I'm going to try and find you some different clothes. Do you want any pain killers?"

He nodded, and when she looked at his face, she could see the strain there. She bit her lip and hurried away. It hadn't donned on her before, but he wasn't really in any shape to be going anywhere. That meant that he was going to have stay here for the night, if not longer. Chewing her lip, she frowned. She would have to worry about that later, once she was sure he wasn't going to die. With that thought, she bustled away, looking for the things she needed.

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Th-th-th-th-th-that's all folks! Thanks for reading.

--Kacie Renn