#( update: just realized i spelled 'shut' as 'shit' and im actually crying LMAO )

[goreswine]

bandage patch them up when they get hurt. -Nurse

                         SHE ONLY MAKES THE WOUND WORSE. Red descends from head to jaw, dripping slowly like sugar from a STRAWBERRY GASH. The pain ends up pulsating, but much of her neglects the ache. This isn’t the first time she’s suffered something so severe and she’s certain it won’t be the last. In fact, she rather LIKES the way it LEAKS; she rather LIKES how the HURT can be so humbling. It reminds her of what it was once like to be human, to be part of a world where pain meant something, where murder had so much meaning. But in a world where she is ETERNAL, these wounds are simply a reminder that she can be attacked, but not ended. It’s a reminder that her new gods get to decide these games and if she is to fail, THEN HER FLESH WILL FUCKING FEEL IT. She spits to the side, careful not to get drool on the damsel. Rust resides within the goop she expelled, but she can’t tell the source of her suffering. Was it from the BLOODY NOSE? Or perhaps when she BIT HER TONGUE the moment pallet fell upon her frame? Regardless, she brushes it off as a minor inconvenience and allows nurse to resume her wrapping.                         SOFTNESS - it comes in the form of a gauze and delicate fingers through her hair. She can tell this woman is careful not to make the wounds worse; she can tell that her comfort is being considered. Eyes, just as BLOODSHOT as her body, look up at the other rather weakly. There is still some DEFIANCE in those optics - a fire that begs not to be babied. But isn’t it funny how things have changed? In her own world, she was used to caring for her own cuts. She recalls the strong sent of alcohol upon her entirety and sliding into bed smelling like cheap spirits. She recalls crimson STAINING the edge of her jeans when the wraps weren’t enough to suppress new slashes. She recalls moments of STITCHING HERSELF SHUT, even when she knew a possible infection was inevitable. Never before had someone bothered to tend to her tragedy, or make her feel like she was worthy of being preserved. Much of this moment is difficult to define and yet she finds herself softened, defenseless, VULNERABLE to any vexation. But none come. All that emerges is the familiar shape of a hidden beauty trying to heal a fellow heathen. Maybe she’s losing too much life; maybe the chemicals have come over her… But she finds herself needing to say… 

                                           ❛ WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE YOU? ❜