Words and Phrases and Clauses
Feb 8, 2016 8:44:30 GMT -8
Barnaby Cuthbert and Blake Sterling Jr. like this
Post by Tennessee Whiskey on Feb 8, 2016 8:44:30 GMT -8
The left medial deltoid is exposed first--and it is exposed, too, shreds of skin and filaments of red pulling away with the shreds of her jacket. She's making a face, in the mirror, that she recognizes mostly from afar, in cracked glass behind rows of shitty liquor. She's sure she's made it since, but she hadn't seen it in a while. The four lacerations curl around to the anterior deltoid as well, though as she experimentally tries to lift her arm she finds the trouble is more weakness than pain. They could just as easily have gone through her throat in another few inches, which would have caused its own problems.
It's still a bit of a surprise to get close to a mirror like this and see nothing clouding the glass, but she's getting used to it. She takes the tweezers from the probably unnecessary gauze on the counter and picks at the first of the shreds of fabric and leather ground into the wound. Like she read it in a book, she remembers the primary feeling used to be cold, but now she's as room temperature as the instrument, and she only feels pressure against the dull ache of the lacerations.
The crumpled jacket on the floor catches her eye when she sets the tweezers down after the first set and she pauses, hands fisted in the hem of her shirt. The sticky splash against the back is still there. Bending with her knees, rather than twisting her torso, she picks it up and brings it up to the light. The dull brown flakes off when the leather beneath it bends, like you'd expect blood to. It's nowhere near any of the slashes on her coat, old or new. When she brings the jacket to her face and, deliberately, for the first time in hours, breathes, it doesn't smell remarkably different from her own. There's nothing of the muted hunger of the Beast buried in her hindbrain, but when she catches sight of her expression in the mirror it's one she'd seen far less often than her whiskey grimace.
Minutes have passed before she opens her eyes, and she doesn't look her reflection in the face again. The jacket is crumpled in the corner; she'll ask someone to get rid of it for her later. The mirror will be harder to replace, eventually. For now Whiskey thinks she ought to live with a fractured reflection.
It's still a bit of a surprise to get close to a mirror like this and see nothing clouding the glass, but she's getting used to it. She takes the tweezers from the probably unnecessary gauze on the counter and picks at the first of the shreds of fabric and leather ground into the wound. Like she read it in a book, she remembers the primary feeling used to be cold, but now she's as room temperature as the instrument, and she only feels pressure against the dull ache of the lacerations.
The crumpled jacket on the floor catches her eye when she sets the tweezers down after the first set and she pauses, hands fisted in the hem of her shirt. The sticky splash against the back is still there. Bending with her knees, rather than twisting her torso, she picks it up and brings it up to the light. The dull brown flakes off when the leather beneath it bends, like you'd expect blood to. It's nowhere near any of the slashes on her coat, old or new. When she brings the jacket to her face and, deliberately, for the first time in hours, breathes, it doesn't smell remarkably different from her own. There's nothing of the muted hunger of the Beast buried in her hindbrain, but when she catches sight of her expression in the mirror it's one she'd seen far less often than her whiskey grimace.
Minutes have passed before she opens her eyes, and she doesn't look her reflection in the face again. The jacket is crumpled in the corner; she'll ask someone to get rid of it for her later. The mirror will be harder to replace, eventually. For now Whiskey thinks she ought to live with a fractured reflection.
