@brokenbladesandfaces asked: Tending to a gunshot wound in silence.
FIRST TOUCH PROMPTS.
in. she counts her breaths. out. she keeps counting. in. tick tick tick. out. tick tick tick. she watches her own movements in their subtlety as nimble hands seek metal to retrieve it where it’s pierced. her femoral is somehow intact. she has a gift that way. she’s unwavering, doesn’t blink. doesn’t wince. pain ebbs and flows like water on the edge of a shore. she can’t stand the concept of sedatives even in their necessity in this particular moment. the fuzzy tendrils wriggle outward and her eyelids droop before they raise again, jammed garage doors. she breathes in, out, forcing everything she can into focus. the dark behind her eyes swims back again, a burst of distant light that blooms from center out.
mouth opens and closes. biting down on bright red mouth, lipstick’s even begun to fade in that constant stress. breathe, she reminds herself, blunt nails anxiously worrying into the damaged creases of her heavily singed palms. ancient scarring turns it near russet.
breathe. she tells herself. she reminds that she can trust these hands, otherwise she wouldn’t have chosen this particular doorstep to darken, this table to bleed upon. breathe, breathe.
