with. – @oflightfeet where.– nana’s home when. – may 24, early afternoon
Nana grits her teeth as she drags the cloth against her side. The movement increases the copper that stains her tongue from how hard she bites down on the inside of her cheek. The puncture wound wouldn’t be much to deal with if it hadn’t gotten infected. She should’ve gone to a hospital instead of her local pharmacy to get supplies, but the last thing she wanted to do was saunter into a crowded emergency room and not know what eyes were on her.
So she sits on her bathroom, the cold tile beneath her bare legs. The blood from her side has started to dry and stick to the fabric of the cloth she’s exhausted beneath the running faucet. A hiss escapes her each time she tests the fabric against her skin.
Stop being such a child, she thinks to herself.
Nana can hear her phone ringing from the other room, but she makes no move to retrieve it. The very thought of moving, of bending and arching, sends pain through her already mutilated side. Even with her hand hovering above it, she can feel. the heat of the infection starting to grow. The first thing she had done was take antibiotics, but she isn’t sure how fast they’re working, or if they’re working at all.
Resting her head back, she allows her eyes to close momentarily, fluttering open only when she hears the sound of her front door opening and closing. Then her name. And then--
Wren appears in front of her and Nana wishes to shrink backwards, to be absorbed by the soft light that filters through the only window in her bathroom. Before her lay utensils to stitch herself up, as well as the salves she’s been attempting to smear onto her wound. It’s all laid out before her-- her weakness, her inability to cover up the pain she’s caused herself.
“Don’t,” Nana lets out a half whine, half groan as she tries to move the items out from Wren’s view, only to let out another cry at the sudden pain caused by her shifting around.
