everything’s on fire
Fischer appreciated that no one had gaped at her on the tube ride home. Of course, her mind was still foggy from the drugs and blood loss, so the sense of appreciation was a bit muddled, but nonetheless there. Not that she would have blamed anyone for staring - after all, a tattooed woman in nothing but boxers and a ripped tank top holding the torn, blood-soaked bottom half of her shirt to her head was not the most normal sight to see on the early morning commute.
But it wasn’t the most unusual, either. When Fischer finally reaches her stop - wearing the oversized shoes she had talked off a drunk a few stops back and feeling an uncomfortable draft around her midriff where she tore her top - she pauses to gain her bearings. She could make her way back to her apartment in her sleep, but if everything could just stop spinning…
Miraculously, she makes it home without much conflict or unwanted attention. As Fischer stares blankly at her doorknob (like… it was supposed to open, right?) it slowly dawns on her that her keys are in her jacket pocket. On her apartment floor. Inside. Behind the lock. She lets out a deep sigh and leans forward, her forehead resting on the cool metal of the door. Think, Fischer. You have a spare. Get the spare.
But where was the spare? Her eyes glance over the wall beside her - one of the bricks was loose, and contained a cryptex-inspired device that contained her spare key. That was… that was a lot of work. Fischer lets out a quiet curse. Why did she have to make things so complicated?
Fischer thinks. She had to get inside. She didn’t think she could hold out long enough to obtain the spare key. The brothel upstairs would be a last-ditch effort - despite being on friendly terms with most of the people there, the last thing she wanted was any unnecessary attention drawn to herself and the shitstorm she had found herself in. But-
Rose. Rose should be home, right? Rose wasn’t there when Fischer was taken, but she wasn’t supposed to be gone long. She should be back. Rose should be inside.
Mustering up her strength, Fischer pounds once, twice, on the door. “Rose! Open the door.” Fuck, talking was a lot of work. The words felt thick and heavy falling out of her mouth.
She pounds once more. “Oi! Dipshit!”
Fischer pauses, once again resting her forehead on the door. When was Rose coming? Fischer’s other hand was sticky from pressing her shirt against her wound, and she briefly wonders if it will stay stuck there.
Gathering more of her increasingly-fading strength, Fischer brings her fist against the door again. “Rose…” Talking was too hard. Fischer decides to stop. Her eyes slowly fall downward. It wasn’t far of a stretch to see herself lying on the ground. She feels at peace with the idea. Resting would be nice.
As she rolls over on the sofa, Rose can’t quite tell if the banging is real or if it’s just the dull thump of an impending alcohol-induced headache. Wrestling with reality and a vague sense of conciousness -- Is that ... Fischer? Kicking off the blanket, Rose wobbles to her feet.
She hits her foot against the leg of the coffee table. “Fuck”. Bottles rattle against each other and one falls off the edge, smashing against the floor. “Shit.” Fischer’s been gone for barely a day, and already the place is a tip. “Bollocks.”
Rose stumbles across to the door and can hear Fischer on the other side. She struggles with the locks, hazy, fumbling. Her finger catches in one of the mechanisms. Rose winces and tries not to think about how sore the eventual blood blister will be once it forms.
The door opens, finally, and the sight of Fischer is sobering. Rose tries not to look at the blood and the head wound and ignores the lack of clothing. She quickly steps forward, using her body to support Fischer before she slips to the ground. “The fuck happened to you, man. Get inside.”
