Harrow closes the door with unseemly haste, and presses her paint-greasy forehead against it.
She needs a shower. A water shower, not a sonic, and cold. With harsh lye soap. She'll feel better when the blood is washed off. And the top layer of skin, maybe.
She gets halfway to the bathroom before dizziness over takes her again, and she sits down abruptly on the perpendicular cavalier's bed. Her hand presses against the crisp white sheet, leaving an accusatory pawprint of gravedirt and blood and smeared off paint, and she flees from it.
Later, after her shower, she will strip and make the bed again and listen to Tallahassee at a window-rattling volume.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2020-10-13 03:26 am (UTC)She needs a shower. A water shower, not a sonic, and cold. With harsh lye soap. She'll feel better when the blood is washed off. And the top layer of skin, maybe.
She gets halfway to the bathroom before dizziness over takes her again, and she sits down abruptly on the perpendicular cavalier's bed. Her hand presses against the crisp white sheet, leaving an accusatory pawprint of gravedirt and blood and smeared off paint, and she flees from it.
Later, after her shower, she will strip and make the bed again and listen to Tallahassee at a window-rattling volume.