Prompt 3: Lost
CW: graphic violence, blood, injury
“So… She lost.”
Sofhina’s forearms hit the floor, a mouthful of blood following a moment later. The floor swims in her gaze, shifting and dark and completely out of focus, even at this small distance. Of course, the lack of control over her vision is the least of her worries in that very moment.
“I thought she was supposed to be some beast. That she wasn’t going to lose.”
Each and every word is like a nail being driven into her skull. She can’t quite understand why, not at first. Bloodied fingers trace the path of the sound, from where it reverberates along her horn, to where it joins with her scales, then from scale to smooth flesh- <i>there</i>. The bastard had hit her so hard the scales at her horn were damn near ripped from her head.
“I had money on her.”
Cutaneous disjunction. That was what the chiurgeon had called it last time. It would heal, she’d said. Would this so easily? With all this blood she can feel pulsing from the wound?
“Maybe she thought she was supposed to take a fall.”
How could he have hit her so hard? Each blow was like being smacked in the head by a hammer. He couldn’t have had brass knuckles - no, she would have noticed that. And Hoga had said that would be disqualified. She was sure he would be disqualified if-
She discovers, suddenly, that one of her ribs is broken. It’s not something that is paid particular mind, nothing of true import or pertinence in that moment. It’s simply information, another tick in the muddy list of injuries forming in her brain in that moment.
The far more pertinent information, however, is how she discovers that her rib is broken. The man’s - not the one who had beat her first, off now to enjoy his winnings, no this is her handler - foot comes away, a blur of tattooed flesh beneath his robe retreating from where it had planted itself in Sofhina’s side. Somewhere she can hear pained breathing. It’s probably her own.
“You weren’t supposed to take a fall, you stupid bitch!”
Rib fracture. A boring name. There would be some number associated with it, of course, but still a boring name. It was more fun to say in Hingan, but only marginally. The rest of what her body is covered with, now that is a more interesting term. Contusion.
“Do you even speak Hingan, savage? Answer me!”
“Didn’t… Mean…” It’s hard to form words around the blood.
There must be a name for that too. Internal bleeding. The Xaela wonders if it’s a fun name.
Cutaneous disjunction.
Contusion.
It’s such a different language and yet it seems normal enough on her tongue in such a short time. Maybe it’s the fascination with the mouth sounds. So different than-
Another blow, this time as the man’s heel connects with the back of her skull, sending her forehead to connect with hard stone below. What little of her face hadn’t been coated in blood now smears red with what she’d coated the floor with.
Exsanguination.
Words were pretty, here. Given form as much as function, crafted to convey more than simply communicate. Not like back home.
The pressure under his foot grows greater. Perhaps her head will pop like a melon. Maybe it will all finally be over. “You better not lose again. Got it?” He smells like ale. It’s the only thing Sofhina can smell except blood.
The pressure finally abates. Her head remains undetonated. “Go get fixed up. You fight again in a week. And you’d better not lose.”
Was that still home? No. She couldn’t go back there. Not now, not ever. Is this home?
No. She isn’t home here either. She’s something else entirely.