✂— blood on my name
having called in sick the day before--the woman had wanted to slink through the city that called to her senses with such fervour, to discover the very colour of the turmoil which existed in its very baby steps--it was easy to slink out sometime after 6 p.m., spewing apologies. Â the act had been a very believable one--one that death had forced out a bit of lifeforce for--and the words she received in return were very genuine; it had been hard to swallow the raucous laughter that bubbled up. Â dumbasses. Â
heading home, smiling to herself as she recounts the last words she had heard before she had left the hospital--"keep your eyes open for trouble!"--she does just that.  trouble was fun.  trouble was good.  trouble was a constant that kept her fed, healthy (for the most part) and company, and when she sees the bent body leaning against a wall ahead of her, she thanks all the spirits below.  this was just perfect. Â
concern, it's always concern that she has to fake and so she does; concerned, quick steps, concerned, knitted brows and a concerned, frowning mouth are what she greets the man with, kneeling down and placing a light hand on his shoulder.  leaning over to examine his face, she murmurs, voice soft, shaking and of course, concerned, she asks, "are you alright?"
