Another easy write-up, called Birt of an Alter-Ego.
I saw her once, broken, tired, dead at my feet. Aye, she was me. I was as her as she ever could be. And there she lay, dead at my feet. Dead she was, dead I took, corpse of me I bore. The corpse, yes, 'twas, that I bore on my shoulder.
I carried her to my lodgings, the very property that was mine. And there she lay bleeding on my finest carpet. The one soiled red with the blood of the one I know not. Yes, there she lay, bleeding to life. Life that escaped her to never find it's way back to her insides again. Life that soiled my finest carpet.
She lay there bleeding to life, and I knew there was something to do, and that I shall. I shall find out what to do with her, how to prevent her life from bleeding out. And I ran to my old clothes, which I tore for bandages. Clothes, the ones I wore to look pleasant, now in shreds in my hands. Clothes, that will be used as bandages, to heal the wounds of the one I need not heal.
And there she lay, ruining my finest rug. I could have left her on the matting, they are indeed a waste. But the carpet is already ruined. I brought cold water, and ointment, and warm water, and towels, and of course, the said bandages. And there she lay, motionless in my care, bleeding to life.
Before I continue, bless you, I'm no doctor, this you should know. No! A doctor, I am not. Nor am I humane enough to help the dying. But she was me, and how could I not help? How could I ever let her bleed?
I washed the wounds, oh how deep they were! No wonder she bled so, she was broken, that dear. Bless her, for she needs it. If only blessings could save. I washed her wounds with cold water, and stopped the bleeding to an extent. But drained out of life, she lay; motionless as dead. And if I may have a say, (which I need not ask for, the story is entirely mine) how colorless she was, drained out of life! With skin, that was colored as a stone.
I anointed the wounds, and bandaged them, the basic healing I learnt from my mother, my, how easy it is! But oh, no life. I let warm water vapours on her body, heat is life, and this she needs. I did so, whilst holding her pulse. Aye, holding her pulse, I was. Stopped and dead, like a clock with exhausted batteries. But there was a pulse. There was life. Aye, life bled to her.
Life was her. She was I.
I was life.
Note: Repetition is for the flow of imagery. I'm experimenting with a storytelling style I read in a descript, somewhere the narrative merges with the Ancient Mariner.