[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--]
no subject
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.]