Bleeding

Harry rinsed his arm in the water, flushing the open wound on his forearm of blood and anything else that might have slipped in between then and when he had been cut. It had been perhaps an hour, and he did not trust the wound in the slightest to be clean. He had already pulled the trash bin and a first aid kit beside the sink, and with his off hand was dropping the somewhat dirty, and very bloody cloth he had torn to make a wrapping into the trash. This wasn't the first time he had been wounded like this, nor the first time that he had tended to it himself. It was not likely to be the last.

It was for this reason that Harry had built himself the way he had. Years of training had produced muscles that made him look more like a wall than a man, and he had the endurance to run for five miles straight without need for alarm. He found himself frequently in the midst of fights; usually that he had no part in being involved with. Seeing people being beaten, in need of help, taken to their limits and pushed beyond them to the brink of death... He refused to stand by and watch.

The wound stung deeply as he wiped it with a disinfectant. He was fortunate that it had been made by a knife, and not a jagged piece of glass - while it was deep, it was not wide. That meant that sewing the wound shut would take much less effort, and therefore be much less painful. Though painless, it would not be.

He grimaced but did not cry out as he pulled the needle through his own flesh, back and forth, pulling a thin and sterilized thread with it to tighten the disconnected flesh. It helped that the nerves were somewhat deadened by the number of times he had done this. He occasionally paused his sewing to dab away the blood that was oozing and squirting out so that he could continue to see what he was doing. Only somewhat important.

He tied a knot at the end and snipped the line, making sure it was tight, then began to wrap it all with a new, clean bandage. Red spots appeared on it almost immediately. He wrapped the wound over and over, layering the white wrappings until no red spots seeped their way through. Eight time around his arm, pulled as tight as they could. With some medical glue, he sealed the wrapping, smoothing it out to ensure that he could still have as much mobility as possible.

He grabbed the whiskey on the other side of the sink and took a long swig of it. That was one wound done. Three to go.