January 13, 1979 St. Mungos 12:56 PM @intosunflowers
There was nothing beautiful about the sight that would be held in the hospital that day, nothing silent or a moment of peace, the winter leaking through the cracks in the windows, blood on the panes, curtains drawn to ignore the snow on the streets, the posters on the wall. There was nothing of peace the way he fought against the restraints that bound him to the gurney, the broken leg he fought against, the spells he believed held no matter to his health, though he only gave ragged breaths, though he couldn't struggle for long in any sense of the rational mind, though his didn't belong to such categories, so he fought, so he believed he could stand on bones set only in shards, that he could return to fire to prove who he was meant to be, to be who they needed him to be. Perhaps they were right to restrain him, though blood now formed at the ends of his fingertips, a sweat on his brow, though he couldn’t register it, couldn’t register the pain, his mind on a one track course, knuckles that shined a bright shade of white as he held them in a fist. He did shout at the healers, that he didn’t belong here, of all he could do, and despite the scare he brought, enough that they made sure to keep him still, enough that they had to shift healers as he hit the other in the head, he still appeared no more than a boy here. He appeared to young, as if they transformed a boy into a soldier, worth held in the way of his actions, held beneath them for the loyalty of a family, and not the beliefs they held, murder on his hands, believing they belonged there.
The door taken off its hinges, the reminder that guards could enter his room without the pause of a doorway, and it was through that that the gurney was shrouded with a shadow, and what they would see was thus: the fight against the restraints, a mind plagued by all he didn’t do, what he should have done, what would have protected his pack by being useful, by being the monster he believed to be as a child and fought against such beliefs and worked to shed away the ideals that he could contradict fate. He did create a show of sorts here, his frustration for his hesitation in the riots manifesting itself in his own rationalization of actions against St. Mungos, that he would be able to leave there in a moment’s notice, one leg and all. And this show of power was displayed again here for the woman who stood before him, though given some sort of pause at the sight of her, seeing her age as something they would share, and for a fraction of a second, it could be seen, the question of why one so young would be among them and sent to heal him. ( A question he heard before about his own person being among the werewolf pack. )
“You’re the wrong healer,” was all he would say to her, in the same tone that matched that of his struggling, the same desperate voice, accompanied by the pain that arrived back into his mind from his pause that he now regretted. He said this rudely, though also perhaps, something of a warning, that he didn’t want her there, but also that she wouldn’t be subject to his act, too young, as young as he was. ( There was also the fact that he didn’t recognize her, and St. Mungos would tend to send Bennett the same healers, those who would know how to understand lycanthropy, those that studied the creatures, though, they would tend to treat him more as a discovery than anything else, a curiosity, and there was a mix of thankfulness that another was present, and the wishing for it all to wash away from reality. It was such a difficult thing to pin down emotions, though it was easier to deal with the known. )