In the Forests of New France
You know no one would hear your cries. You don't have a lot of choices left; chances are you're going to die one way or the other. So you might as well try to get yourself out of the trap the last way you know.
You fish the knife out from the top of your boot, your hands shaking--though whether it's fear, the cold, the loss of blood, or the half blocked-out pain from the trap itself that's causing the shaking, you don't know. Finally, your fingers close around its handle and you drag it out.
Your fingers are a bit slick with blood from pulling at the trap's jaws, and you realize that you'll likely kill yourself by trying to cut through your leg. You're quite sure the bone is broken, which might enable you to get through, but if by some chance it's not, you know you'll not get through with a relatively small knife like you have.
You clench your teeth, placing the blade of the knife against your flesh, just above the place where the metal bites into your skin. You take a deep breath, your minding racing through any comforting thought or prayer you can think of. You press down on the blade, feel a sharper pain than the dull ache of your numbing leg.
More blood rushes to the surface of your injured leg. You are already starting to feel weak, but again you don't know if it means you've lost too much blood, or if you're simply squeamish. You wonder what Severin would have done in your situation, but it is an idle thought--he likely would never do anything to get himself caught in a trap in the first place. Actually, you know he wouldn't.
You draw the knife back, deepening the cut. The queasiness and sickening weakness continues, and you're forced by your swirling vision--what little you can see in the dark--to stop and lean back, panting and sweating despite the chill air.
You realize you should probably tourniquet your leg before you try to do anything else. Your shirt, ripped as it is, is unlikely to actually do anything else to help you, so you pull it off shakily and tear a strip to tie around your leg. You never learned the proper way of doing it, but you can guess. Twisting and wrapping it around the limb, you finally tie it off.
You take up your knife again, but the weakness is quickly becoming overpowering. You feel like you will vomit soon if you don't stop, and that's something you have no desire to do--especially famished as you are; you can't imagine you'd actually bring anything up, but you know you'll need anything you have.
And then you're out of consciousness again...
You fish the knife out from the top of your boot, your hands shaking--though whether it's fear, the cold, the loss of blood, or the half blocked-out pain from the trap itself that's causing the shaking, you don't know. Finally, your fingers close around its handle and you drag it out.
Your fingers are a bit slick with blood from pulling at the trap's jaws, and you realize that you'll likely kill yourself by trying to cut through your leg. You're quite sure the bone is broken, which might enable you to get through, but if by some chance it's not, you know you'll not get through with a relatively small knife like you have.
You clench your teeth, placing the blade of the knife against your flesh, just above the place where the metal bites into your skin. You take a deep breath, your minding racing through any comforting thought or prayer you can think of. You press down on the blade, feel a sharper pain than the dull ache of your numbing leg.
More blood rushes to the surface of your injured leg. You are already starting to feel weak, but again you don't know if it means you've lost too much blood, or if you're simply squeamish. You wonder what Severin would have done in your situation, but it is an idle thought--he likely would never do anything to get himself caught in a trap in the first place. Actually, you know he wouldn't.
You draw the knife back, deepening the cut. The queasiness and sickening weakness continues, and you're forced by your swirling vision--what little you can see in the dark--to stop and lean back, panting and sweating despite the chill air.
You realize you should probably tourniquet your leg before you try to do anything else. Your shirt, ripped as it is, is unlikely to actually do anything else to help you, so you pull it off shakily and tear a strip to tie around your leg. You never learned the proper way of doing it, but you can guess. Twisting and wrapping it around the limb, you finally tie it off.
You take up your knife again, but the weakness is quickly becoming overpowering. You feel like you will vomit soon if you don't stop, and that's something you have no desire to do--especially famished as you are; you can't imagine you'd actually bring anything up, but you know you'll need anything you have.
And then you're out of consciousness again...