If I Should Die

Peyton rubbed the cat behind the ears, then pushed the covers back on her full-sized bed. Early morning sun filtered through her sheer, patterned curtains. Her slippers made a whoosh, whoosh noise as she shuffled through her living room and into the kitchen.
The door on the far side of the room was open. Her heartbeat slammed in her chest as she saw a stranger lying face up on her linoleum floor.
It was obviously a man; she could tell by his build. He wore a red flannel shirt and jeans. He had tan lace-up work boots and ratty gray brown hair. He might have been a guy from one of the bars downtown. He probably stumbled in by accident—he was drunk, couldn’t find his way home or thought he was home – and passed out on her floor. Peyton took a step closer. She would wake him, make a little small talk, and send him on his way. Those few steps revealed a pool of blood around the man.
Drunks don’t bleed; they throw up, not bleed. She gasped and looked away. This was bad. She took a deep stabilizing breath and looked back at the stranger.
She knelt down and heard him struggle to breathe. A sucking wound in the stranger’s chest bubbled as he tried to draw air into his lungs. The wound itself made gurgling noises. She stood up from the blood, now wet on her legs and pajama bottoms. A tea towel hung over the sink and she reached for it with bloodstained hands. Pressure, apply firm pressure, she told herself.
“Don’t talk,” Peyton advised the stranger in her kitchen. “I am going to try to stop this bleeding and call nine-one-one.”