you don't know what it's like

[mellowyellow]

characters: Masaomi Kida, Rosalind Lutece
location: Southern edge of the village
date/time: Late November
content: Masaomi joins the ranks of the hilariously and gruesomely injured. Rosalind hosts the initiation.
warnings: Insides on the outside! I kid, but seriously, descriptions of viscera.


There are things nobody tells you in life, lessons some uniquely unlucky individuals will always have to learn the hard way. As Masaomi takes another unsteady step, unsure of whether he's moved an inch or a mile, he decides with detached clarity that this is one of those lessons.

Human beings aren't limited to just feeling pain. Pain can be experienced with all five senses.

It looks like sharp, serrated contrasts. It sounds like a neverending, high-pitched ring. It smells like rotten meat. It tastes like burning. It feels like he's better off dead.

Every part of him is being invaded, every sense and thought and instinct, until that pain is all he is.

He's holding something, but he can't feel it. He can't see it either, but then again, he can't even tell where he's looking anymore. Maybe at the ground, if the ground is still there. He can't feel that either. Maybe he's flying. Maybe he's falling.

Masaomi Kida stumbles over nothing, dropping to his knees first before unconsciously twisting. His back hits the dirt, scattering dust, leaves, and blood into the air. A jagged slash has split him open from near his left ear down the entirety of his torso. It's too messy to have been caused by a man-made blade. Chipped ribs and shredded muscle peek through the saturated wound, still desperately working to hold the lungs and heart in their rightful places, but the further south the gash runs, the deeper it gets. Cradled in Masaomi's slick palms just above his belt buckle are several coils of damaged intestine, looking more like hamburger as they float in a fountain of still gushing blood.

His foot twitches, trying to take another step before the brain realizes what's happened and shuts down too. A gurgle of a laugh follows.

He probably looks so stupid right now. It's a good thing M.K.'s not around to see.

Comments

[originallutece]

[Pain, blinding and white-hot, and half an hour later, it hasn't abated. Perhaps it won't ever abate. Perhaps she'll be trapped in this state, eternally blinded by her pain, her clever mind utterly shattered and incapable of intricate thought; perhaps she'll never recover.

That's dramatic. Stupid. But it's so hard to think in her usual sensible lines right now, when there's dried blood under her nails and her left eye (what's left of it, something giddily terrified screams) hasn't stopped throbbing in pain, eyepatch or no. She's fumbling with needle and thread, thin fingers trembling from pain, knowing sooner or later she'll need stitches.

And then she hears a noise outside, and terror closes her throat.

It's a wonder she doesn't finish the job the spirits began. She stands in the doorway with a bloody blade, her face pale and her clothes bloodstained. Oh, she thinks, and then--

--god, it's always easier to focus on other pain, on Robert, on blood dripping out his nose and his knees buckling, because she could at least handle the solution, she could throw herself at the problem and fix things, she could be something more than helpless--

--comes forward, hissing softly as the stench of blood and innards hits her nose.]

Come here.

[He's half-sprawled already, but she does her best to hoist one arm over her shoulders and walk him indoors. Dangerous, but if she dies while tending to him outside there's no point. He's laid out on one of her lab tables, her eyes darting over the wound. Is there damage to the intestines? Probably not, she can't smell waste, which makes her job a great deal easier, she just has to close him up, so--]

Bite on this.

[A towel. She hasn't the time to give him drugs.]

[mellowyellow]

[His steps are precarious at best, and it's clear her hold on his arm is all that's keeping him upright. She manages to get him inside nonetheless, even if his position on the table is awkward. That's fine. All that really matters is that all his parts are still there. The change in environment - a cool table, stern voice - even helps to sharpen his awareness a tad. His mind finds a string of thought it can cling to.

Someone else is here with him. He's not dead. Then... this person is helping him, right?

The world is spinning too sharply for him to comprehend any one thing he's seeing, but even with his unfocused gaze, he can tell she's offered him something. He opens his mouth, and though his jaw feels shaky and too tense to properly control, tries to bite around the fuzzy fabric now pressing against his tongue.

Garbled syllables shuffle around the make-shift gag. He's about as ready as he can get.]

god im so sorry for how late this is

[originallutece]

[So she begins.

It's not a kindly action, but it's the best option for him now. Antiseptic is the first option, cleaning the wound, and she's generous with it, soaking a rag and sliding it over the opened flesh. Blood seeps out, and she feels her throat close in disgust, she can see in him, organs and flesh and blood, but she ignores her disgust. It's an instinctive reaction, animalistic, and has no purpose here.

And as she cleans, she keeps one arm braced against his chest, trying to keep him still. Antiseptic is bad on skinned knees and papercuts; she can't imagine the agony of it with an injury like this.]

This won't take much longer, and then I'll begin the stitches.

no worries!

[mellowyellow]

[Despite her efforts, Masaomi immediately thrashes beneath her, his stark white grip locking onto the edge of the table in a desperate bid for purchase. These new sensations prickling at his consciousness have regained his brain's attention just in time for a new wave of pain, and he is having none of it. He's not thinking about how or why this is happening, just how the hell he can escape it.

That towel saves his tongue from a nasty bite and her arm keeps him from sitting up, but while her safety measures do wonders for him, they don't stop his knee from jerking up toward her chin.]

[originallutece]

[His knee connects with her chin with a sharp crack, and for a moment the torment stops, if only because she's yanked both her hands back. There's a moment of reeling pain, dizzying, and then she's cursing as she surges forward.]

Stay still.

[It's a snarled out statement, and her hands are far from gentle as she shoves his legs down. A moment's thought, and then she turns, grabbing some rope-- it's swift and sloppy work to throw it over his knees, tying his legs to the table, keeping them down as she returns to her work.

It's stitches now. At least that's a steady pain, searing but hopefully not as bad.]

[mellowyellow]

[Even a sloppy job is better than nothing, and though Masaomi continues to struggle, his blind kicks now earn him only a few minor rope burns. He keeps it up until she's a little over halfway done with the stitching. By then, it's managed to penetrate that nothing he does is going to cool the hot poker stings, and his vain bucking gradually fades into whimpers and shivers.

His grip on the table never loosens.]

[originallutece]

The pain will pass.

[She says it quietly, her voice just as steady as her hand. The scent of blood is everywhere, sickishly familiar, but she won't let herself think of that.]

Focus on the sound of my voice. On what I say to you. You can do that, yes? I know you do prefer to talk instead of listen.

[It's a remark with no teeth, said solely because it's the first thing that comes to mind as she works.]

[mellowyellow]

[A tremor rumbles through his gritted teeth and shoulders, as close as he can get to laughter without sobbing. It halts abruptly with her next stitch.

At least that means he is listening. He can even understand most of what she's saying when he manages to focus.]