Yes that's a Doll Divine picrew I used for clothing reference. The picrew itself does use clothing from the era!! Still no idea what hairstyle fits her more whatever hair changes every now and then.

The scar lifts their lip btw, added two moles

The IV hangs limp from the drip stand, with its vein-like tubing hanging off the edifice, one particular translucent tube smoothly filled with saline mingled with…something. She must be seeing things, the bag seems to glow a bluish hue.

Her vision darkens. Her breathing rattles in her lungs, hollowed drum of flesh, with each shaky inhale she takes of the decayed air around her. Sweat clings the feeble medical gown onto her spiny back, skin clinging onto her lean form. Muscles deteriorating, she can feel it, she swears.

Contrary to the bed, the floor is a cold yet comforting place. Uniform and plain the floor is. The stickiness and the sheen of perspiration that coats her body like a cling of biofilm eases to something manageable as she rests her burning cheek against it, sighing at the relief it brings. Hair, sprawled on the grey ground beneath her, sticking onto her nape.

Wounds burn. Like the piercing shot of a shadowy, phantom bullet, heat and dull throbs of woe radiate in harsh pulsating rhythm. It blinds her, and merges with the astigmatic, striking halo of the light above. Each movement of her frail body is but another act of self-inflicted torment.

Shadows creep into the water, something darker, something dying the pool of water an unsettling shade of…

A doe.

She hears its staggered breaths. Its huffs and grunts. A punctured lung, and the effort it strains to inflate its failing corpse. Its black, beady eyes stare back at her, moisture gleaming the room’s reflection from its dull gelatinous gaze. The hide is matted with treacly blood, splattered onto the artificial, clinical walls, and dark blood dribbles down the doe’s torso via multiple faucets, all draining to the pool of water from the leaky sink. The pungent smell of foliage and earth blows and assaults her senses, like the vivid musk of wild deer in the woods and she swears she can feel the cool air of September’s early mornings.

With a trembling hand she reaches for it.

She can barely feel her hands. There are no grooves on the smoothened ground for her to dig her nails onto. But still she tries, pressing until her nails dig back into the cuticles, until her nails threaten to flake off her fingers. Her chapped lips purse and crack, as she desperately wills at her body to move. She tries flexing her arms, her muscles, yet nothing. Just nothing.

Deadened eyes bore into her, as its breathing begins faltering.

No.

She can’t lift her head. A shaky exhale leaves her lips. Warm rivulets slip from the corners of her strained, blood eyes, and she can feel it drip onto the ground next to her. Just as she sees the moisture in the doe’s eyes begin to fade.

No.

Her father. The bolt action rifle he loved. Her name, her name, her name—

In the far distance she hears the clink of a lock and key.

No.

The foliage and half-damp mud beneath her fades. All that is left is the uniform concrete she had collapsed on lays on.

Yet the doe remains. Its torso caved in, and maggots crawl and squirm around its tough hide, writhing inside the cavernous hollowed shell of the rotting corpse amidst the incessant buzzing of flies. Its eyes, long eaten and fallen out from their sockets. The dark depths of nothingness stare back at her.

“...She’s fallen out again.”

“...Should we strap her down?”

“...Don’t bother. She’s not a threat anyways.”

Hands. Many pairs of hands grab at her. Hoisting her limp body up. Pain springs in her eyes and a raspy gasp elicits from her, ignored by those that lift her.

The doe remains.

Its vacant eyes stare back at her, as she is pulled away from her ward.

Down, down the corridor.

Its condemning gaze never once leaves her.

———