Arriving at the top, he locked the apartment door and entered the bathroom again. The woman was laying in same position on the floor, her eyes closed. He nudged her carefully. "I got your backpack!" She opened her eyes and he held the backpack in front of her face. She took a deep breath, probably relieved. Hannes threw the bag into a corner, sat next to her, and considered. He had to, of course, treat the wounds. But he had to undress her for that. Maybe she wouldn't like it at all. Perhaps he'd start with the top, the sweater. He sighed, stood up and looked in the medicine cupboard over the sink for bandages, scissors, plasters and adhesive tape. He was always well equipped and prepared, often enough he came home from work with minor, sometimes also common injuries, sometimes his hand squeezed in between boxes, sometimes he scratched his legs somewhere, there was always something once a week to bandage. He didn't have to go to the doctor, the foreman had made it clear to him that these were all just small things, that he could take care of himself at the end of the shift, and if he went to the doctor, he knew that there were forklift drivers like sand by the sea.
Hannes looked for everything together and put the pile of bandages next to the woman. "Now I'm ready, I'm gonna take off your sweater and I'm gonna take care of the wounds." She didn't move. He carefully lifted the sweater but noticed that the sweater had stuck to the wounds. He was thinking. With the washcloth it would take too long, so he stood up, pulled the plug out of the shower tray, let in fresh warm water and let the water run also. Carefully he squatted next to the woman and lifted her up, slowly putting her into the shower tray. When her butt got wet, she moaned a little and moved restlessly until she had probably found a position where she felt no pain.
Now another cloud of stench spread, as the dried trousers soaked in water and the encrustation became wet again. Hannes took the showerhead from the holder and moved it carefully over the sweater. Again and again, he carefully pulled the waistband, and at some point, the fabric had detached itself from the wound. It was challenging to take off her sweater because she was sitting in the shower tray, sinking down. Hannes was sure that the stains would never completely disappear, even if he was washing the clothes at 100 degrees Celsius in the washing machine. He reached for the scissors and began to cut the sweater.
Washing - Part 3
Hannes cut the sweater open like in an autopsy: in the middle, at the navel.
Belly button? There wasn't one, just a smooth stomach. He cut further and discovered something disturbing. The further he cut, the more an arrow became visible pointing to her abdomen, painted on her skin with lipstick or something similar. He cut a bit to the lower chest and discovered that someone had written the word NEVER with an exclamation mark next to the arrow. He looked into the face of the woman who had closed her eyes and leaned her head against the bathroom wall. Hannes swallowed and cut further up to the neck. He folded the halves of the sweater to the side. The result were perfectly formed breasts. Too perfect already. The curves, the firmness was, yes, just perfect. But the skin was bruised. The breasts were scabbed circularly. Hannes turned up his mouth while pouring water on her chest. One could see that Hannes also noticed that the woman did not breathe through her stomach as usual, but the chest stretched slowly and then pulled itself together again.
The stomach was smooth, and Hannes could see the muscles. His eyes wandered back to the chest. He decided to further cut the sweater at the sleeves. Every now and then he had to soak the fabric again before he could pull it off the skin. The arms were also covered in bruises, some wounds had scabbed, and other scabs ripped open again when Hannes pulled off the sweater and clear liquid was coming out of the wounds.
Anyway, he could put ointment on them later. Somewhere, he knew, there was another tube of healing ointment, and he had enough bandages. He shoved his hand under her neck and lifted her a little from the wall so that he could pull away the fabric of the sweater underneath her body. But that wasn't possible, the tissue had somehow tangled. She opened her eyes and grabbed his hand, held it. Hannes pulled the body still a bit in his direction and felt the back to explore where the fabric was stuck.
After a few seconds of feeling around, he felt a pain in his index finger. He pulled his hand away from behind her back, frightened, there was a small red dot on his finger, he had pricked something. He looked at her, she looked back. An unpleasant feeling crept in Hannes. "I'm gonna get you out of here," he said, "I'm gonna put you down and turn you around again. The cloth won't come off." She let go of his hand again, and Hannes heaved the body of the alien from the shower cup, put it in front of it on the carpet and turned it on the belly.
The back of the sweater was also dirty, but in contrast to the front, which had large stains, there were small stains on the back along the spine, which reached from the neck to almost the pelvis, as if someone had punctured needles along the spine on both sides again and again. Hannes fiddled with the fabric and found that it was really needles that held the material, but not as many as the stains suggested. He had to loosen the tissue before he could remove the needles.
He threw the cloth into the corner of the backpack and saw that some needles were stuck in the body. She had small dark elevations in her skin along the spine, they looked like old, scarred pimples, and they were all along the spine. In seven of these elevations, there were needles. The scab around the small wounds was damp, and so Hannes pulled one after the other out. The woman inhaled and exhaled deeply several times, probably relieved, it must have been quite painful to have these things in her body. Carefully he turned her back on her back. She closed her eyes, made a strange "HMMMPFT," took Hannes's hand, and led her to the waistband of her trousers. What's going on here, Hannes thought, but he also knew that what would be seen would certainly not be erotic nor sexy in any way; the red arrow with the NEVER said enough.
She looked at him, then looked at her jeans. He opened the button, pulled the zipper down, and tried to pull the pants off her hips. She wasn't wearing any underwear. The pants were too tight, almost impossible to take them off. She lifted her butt a little and Hannes tried it again. Then he finally made it and pulled the pants off. Hannes bounced back, hardly wanting to believe what he saw. Not only was the fabric of her private part swollen, but also green and blue. Someone sewed it up with wire or wire rope. He got sick. It stank terribly. He got up, grabbed her pants, and took her pants off. Little chunks, probably excrements, fell out of her pants. He dropped the pants and knelt next to his body. The silver wire clearly stood out from the swollen tissue. He spread her legs a little and saw that her whole pubic area was sewn up. He looked at her face, she showed no emotion. Hannes stood up, took a fresh washcloth, wet it with clean water, and put the cloth between his legs.
She looked at him, he returned the gaze, then he stood up laboriously. With wobbly legs, Hannes then staggered into the kitchen, first wanted a coffee, but he decided to open the fridge. There had to be a bottle of vodka or something. He found it, put it on his mouth and drank a good sip. It burned like fire. He didn't have to puke. He sat down at the kitchen table and smoked. He was not sure what to do, of course, he had to take care of her, he also had to cut the wire and try to pull it out of the flesh. Then it would take a lot of ointment, a lot of bandages and some band-aid to treat the wounds.
He also certainly had a pair of old T-shirts and some old underwear he could put her on, and he could let her sleep in his bed too ... Although he thought that might not be a good idea. A horrible idea would be to call the police or an ambulance; who knows what would happen to her and above all to him. He was sure that he wouldn't survive. And she probably won't either. What the hell do you do with an alien in your own four walls? One that was also injured, probably tortured. Who wanted it dead?
Hannes got up, took another sip of vodka, and then went back to the bathroom. Surprised, he saw as he stood in the door that she dunked the washcloth into the shower tray in this moment and then put it back between her legs. She looked at him, Hannes went to her and took a
closer look at the wound. It wasn't a wire rope or Bowden cable, as he thought at first, it was a shiny silver wire. He reached for the side cutter and carefully hold it to the top wire. The wire was more stable than he thought, so he had to press very hard; then he cut the wire through. Nothing happened.
He laboriously cut every wire; the tissue began to bleed again, but so easily that he could wipe off the blood with a cloth. He grabbed the flat-nose pliers and began to carefully grasp one of the severed wires ends and pulled it. It was easy to pull out of the body. He also removed the other wires.
When he was finished, she lay there with slightly spread legs and a bleeding private part, he gasped for air, she took his hand and squeezed it.
Hannes stood up, opened the drain and let the water out of the shower tray and let fresh water run in. He picked her up and put her back in the tray, then clamped the showerhead in the holder and searched his room for old clothes to put on after band-aid her. Suddenly he heard noises in the bathroom as if a body was moving back and forth in the shower tray, but he didn't pay any further attention.
When he came back, the woman was in the shower soaped and with the shower gel. She had washed off the arrow and the word ‚NEVER! ‘. She turned to him as he entered and watched him as he put the clothes on the toilet seat, grabbing his bandages. He waved her to him. After a moment she turned off the water and stepped on the carpet, waited.
Uncertainly Hannes stood with the stuff in his hands in front of her, she pointed to the towel rail, and Hannes stepped aside. She grabbed a towel and began to dry herself off. Hannes sighed. This developed a little differently than he would have thought. When she was done, he fished with his foot for the stool in the corner and pointed with his chin at it. She imitated the gesture, looked at him questioningly. He sat down and stood up again, looked at her. She sat down and got up again.
Why didn't she understand? Hannes put the stuff on the floor, took her hand, and pointed with the other again at the stool. She sat down. He reached for her arm and looked at the wound that had struck him before, but he was amazed to find that it was already scabbed. He walked around her, saw that the rises, the pimples on her back had retaken on skin color. Apparently, she was able to heal herself, like his grandmother used to say. Even the small scabby spots on the chest were almost no longer visible.
He stood in front of him and stretched out his hands, she reached for them, and he pulled her forward. He looked at the stool and the stains and saw that the wounds on her buttocks had not healed yet. He let her go, grabbed the T-shirt and handed it to her. She put it on. Then he looked for a small guest towel in his towels, folded it once, placed it in the crotch of his underpants, dug briefly in the heap of dressing material for the healing ointment, smeared a thick strand on the towel. He stepped behind her, let her step in the pants, and pulled them up.
Now he stood helpless in the bathroom, while she didn't move. His head was empty. His back hurt. He was hungry and thirsty. It occurred to him that she must also be hungry and thirsty, but he did not know what to give her. Whatever. He took her by the hand and led her into his bedroom, he could sleep on the couch in the living room until she had recovered a little. She was standing next to the bed, and he told her to lie down. She did and lay down on her back, looked at him, then closed her eyes. Hannes grabbed the blanket, covered it up, lowered the shutters at the window, and left the bedroom.
When he closed the door, he wondered if he should lock it, but he rejected the thought. He went into the kitchen and sat down at the kitchen table. His gaze fell on the clock. After four o'clock in the afternoon. His eyes wandered to the window; it was already slightly dawning. He turned on the light and sat down again. Actually, he was hungry and thirsty, but he was too tired. Tomorrow he was still off according to the agreement, before he would go to his early shift on Tuesday. He got up, went to the refrigerator to get a beer, but then he remembered that it was probably an excellent idea to wash thoroughly. In the bathroom, however, he confined himself to washing his face, arms and hands extensively, briefly looking at the mess. He could clean that tomorrow, he decided, went into the kitchen and got himself a beer. He wasn't hungry anymore.
In the living room, he sat down on the sofa, turned on the TV, but didn't notice which program was on. He leaned back and took a large sip. When the soft humming in his head indicated the effect of the beer, today's day and last night seemed very surreal to him. Next to the living room was laying a woman who clearly indicated that she was not from this world. She was beautiful, no question, perfect physique, but strangely enough already too perfect, too beautiful. If she hadn't been injured, he wouldn't have found her in the trunk of a destroyed car, he wouldn't have touched her; she was scary and strange.
But, Hannes thought, that this was his own nature, first help, then ask. And he had plenty of questions. Maybe she'd talk when she'd recovered. Tells her story. But maybe in the middle of the night a bunch of soldiers would come and shoot him and take them with them. Perhaps she would attack him in the middle of the night, eat him up because she was hungry, or just kill him. Maybe she was the vanguard of a war fleet trying to invade Earth. There's still time to call the police or the military.
But what do you say? "Hello, I have a wounded alien in my bedroom, and I don't know what to do now?" Indeed, such a call would have become a legend, perhaps such a request would still be told in a hundred years. "There was this guy who had an alien in his bedroom, remember?" Hannes emptied the bottle and decided to leave it there for now; he had helped a strange creature, saved it, washed it and provided it with fresh clothes, tomorrow he would think about the next steps. Then he would also try to find out which food it needs, no, she needs, and calmly consider the further procedure.
He laid down as he was on the couch, turned off the TV and fell asleep almost instantly. The last clear thought that went through his mind before he slipped into blackness was: "What the hell am I doing with an alien in my house?”
10 days of nursing care
When Hannes woke up, he felt as if he had been beaten up with a stick for hours. His thoughts were soft, spongy and foggy. His whole body ached. When he opened his eyes, he saw the empty beer bottle on the table. He noticed that he had slept on the sofa in the living room and wondered why he had stayed here; he was also dressed. Strange.
A look at the clock told him the time: already 3 pm. A hot flash of lightning went through him: work, early shift, shit! He jumped up, ran into the kitchen, reached for the coffee pads, looked at the sideboard where the coffee machine was.
There was a half-empty bottle of vodka there. Something was moving straight in his head. That's right, he had vodka yesterday, too. His eyes fell on the kitchen table. There was an empty coffee cup. Everything was the same, wasn't it?
He stopped, tried to focus his thoughts. No, damn it, it wasn't like always. The sink was clean. The dishes were washed. The sink was spotless. That disturbed him the most. Sure, he did the dishes, too, but he never polished the sink. No way! He looked around, the coffee pad in one hand and a cup in the other.
It took a few seconds for him to realize that he wasn’t alone in the apartment.
Today was Monday. He was off because he'd been working the whole last week. He had found a strange creature, no, saved it. And it occurred to him that he had taken care of it here with him, and last but not least that he had put it to sleep here with him in the bedroom.
Hannes allowed himself a very deep sigh, then made himself a cup of coffee. With a cigarette and the coffee, he stepped to the kitchen window and looked out, grey sky, a little fog. He tilted the window to let fresh air in, shivered, it was cold.
He had to pee urgently but found that he had no desire to enter the bathroom due to all the chaos that needed to be removed. Hannes gave himself a jolt, put down the empty cup and walked past the bedroom door. He also had no desire, even an aversion, to meet the creature that he had put to bed there yesterday.
The bathroom was clean and organized. W
ell, almost. The dirty laundry was in a corner with the cut sweater, the shower was clean, the floor too. The window was tilted, it was cold. Yawning he stood in front of the toilet. While he was peeing, he realized that it would also be a good idea to wash and shave himself. With his head still empty, he scraped his shaving things together, smeared his face with shaving cream and began to scrape off the stubble. He didn't notice that the door next to him opened and the woman entered. He saw her scurrying by in the mirror, naked, noiselessly behind him, he turned his head to the toilet, saw her squatting with her feet on the toilet seat and emptying her bowels, without noticing him or looking at him; Hannes stood there, his face full of shaving cream, the razor in his hand. He shrugged his shoulders and continued to shave, ignoring her. He heard her light-footed hopping off the lid, flushing and disappearing again. Thank God it didn't stink.
But so light-footed? That fast? So noiseless? Apparently, it had regenerated for the most part. But he still didn't feel like dealing with her. After shaving he washed and then felt more or less human again. Hannes grinned. He generally felt human, but how did she feel? It was clear to him that the problematic time would begin now, here and today. What do you do with an alien in the house? This was no show like Alf did back then, who came from the depths of space and liked cats. Hannes was clear, two things were necessary to think reasonably: fresh clothes and lots of coffee.
The clothes were in the bedroom, he stood in front of the door, wondering if he should knock, but decided against it. Those who shit so boldly in other people’s presence did not basically need an advance warning of knocking. He opened the door, it was dark, the shutters were down, but the light from the hallway was enough to see the closet, he knew where his clothes were. He quickly fished his clothes out of the dresser. He forbade himself to look at the bed to see if she was lying there and slept or was just lying there. He quickly left the room and put on fresh clothes in the hallway. Quickly tamed his hair with his hands and on into the kitchen.
E.B.E. 21- the Hunt Page 4