Carrion Dawn

Status
Not open for further replies.
Mal had been frozen in the middle of the room for almost an hour before her legs gave out. It was the longest she'd been upright in two days, except for that part where they tied her wrists over her head and yanked her shoulders out of position. And she was tired and hungry, and...and something. It seemed to her that nothing else existed but physical sensation. No desire, no emotion. Just pain and exhaustion and the feeling of someone else's blood growing cold on her skin.

It was the pain of the brand -- not its boundaries, not its ruthless symbolism, just the pain itself -- that reminded her of what she had to do. She had started trembling more severely after half an hour of just standing in one more place, exertion taking hold where fear and shock had made their place. And then finally, her legs had buckled, and she'd thought she was passing out, and she was glad for it, until she landed on her elbow so hard, she nearly wrenched her arm out of its socket. A surprised sound left her mouth, as if she'd only just become aware of where she was, loosely speaking, at least, and she whimpered in the back of her throat, because her head hurt and her stomach hurt and she was cold.

That part was easy, then. With her brain turned off, her body reacting solely on survival instinct, things were nice. Not good, but nice. She dragged herself back to her feet after a few moments. Not because she was covered in blood and that was awful in some way she'd never be able to say, but because she blood was soaked into her clothes and hair and making her shake.

She was tired, too, and hungry, but she knew she couldn't sleep until she took the white pills in that red bottle, and she couldn't take those pills until she ate, and she couldn't eat until...well. That was too much, too far right now. Eating would come later. First, a shower.

The shower was harder. The hot water was good, but it was only a matter of minutes before the steam and heat made her feel light-headed and she had to sit and let the water run over her back and shoulders and hair. She cried while that happened. Not because she was sad or afraid, but because the water sliding over the burn on her belly hurt so bad she wanted to pass out, and she couldn't. She cleaned the burn the best she could, but she didn't get very far. She'd have to take some of those painkillers first. Maybe a lot. Enough so that she could be quick and dirty with scouring away the dead skin and wrapping it. Enough to put her out for a long time, too deep for any dreams.

But that, too, was for later.

She sat under the water until the water went cold and she was shivering again then stood up and turned it off and grabbed clothes to keep warm. Nothing impressive. Nothing fit, and she still didn't want anything touching her belly. She ended up grabbing a pair of pants made from a loose material she didn't recognize. They were too long by several inches, but she'd fix that later. She nearly fell asleep just picking out the clothes, and she had to keep telling herself she had to eat and take that medicine and wrap her stomach first.

She chose another white, sleeveless shirt, only without the blood, and cut away the bottom so it didn't touch the tender skin on her belly. And then she chose a plaid button up because there were still goosebumps and streaks of red on her shoulders and arms and she wanted those gone now, thank you.

She could have fallen asleep then, if Foka hadn't come back in. She didn't jump, because she didn't feel scared or angry, or anything at all, except hungry and tired. She watched him walk in and stared at him calmly and waited. The orange jumpsuit she'd discarded was left in the bathroom. She thought maybe she should go rescue it, but she couldn't figure out why, and she didn't really want to know.
 
He looked her over, carefully, tenderly, before he grabbed a spoon and put it into her bowl of warm stew. Coaxing her to sit on the side of the bed, he placed the bowl in her hands, reaching for his own before he took a seat next to her.

The meal smelt decent, with he seasonings and the mixed favors of veal and carrots, potatoes, onions, celery, the works. Foka, on the other hand, smelt of sweat and blood and tap-water, with the faintest hint of cooked meat and seasoning. It was basil.

The smell Foka normally got from cooking, being in the kitchen, was something he enjoyed. In all honesty, preparing meals, cooking, was his passion. It had been his calling, and he had liked it, had been comfortable in that life.

"Is good, yes?" He asked, not turning from his own bowl as he placed a spoonful of the mixture into his mouth, tasting each flavor and ingredient on his own. The carrots were sweet, despite however old they may have been. It was done without planning, or fresh ingredients, but it was okay.
 
Mal wouldn't have thought she could be so hungry and so tired at the same time, but she was. Then again, to be fair, she wasn't really thinking at all, though she was vaguely worried she'd fall asleep before she could even get the spoon to her mouth.

Still, she didn't move until Foka made her, didn't start eating until the smell made her feel so lightheaded, she thought she'd faint. All it took was one slow, trembling spoonful of the seemingly miraculous stew -- how could anything good come out of this place? -- before she was eating so fast, she nearly choked. She stopped only when Foka asked her the question, the spoon halfway between her mouth and the bowl, staring at him, wide-eyed and uncertain, then nodded slowly, because she could tell by the tone of his voice she was supposed to.

She didn't speak. She couldn't speak. Not yet. Not now.

But she still clutched that little red bottle he'd given her in her other hand, and she stared at that curiously for a moment before forcing herself to put down the spoon. She cracked open the bottle, mechanically tipping two, then three, then four of the little pills into her hand. Something in the back of her mind told her it was too many, too much. The pain in her belly was considerable, but her own exhaustion would help put her to sleep as much as anything.

She was about to tip two pills back into the bottle when a voice growled in the back of her mind -- Don't you fuckin' dare.

She stopped.

When the paralyzing fear faded a few seconds later, and she could breathe again, she hurriedly put all four oblong white tablets in her mouth before realizing she didn't have any water, and swallowing them down with soup. That hurt, but she didn't mind. It felt sort of right. Like maybe she deserved it.

That voice seemed to agree.

Exhaustion or fear or something else made the rest of the soup go by slowly. Maybe she knew she'd want more when she finished, just like she knew she wouldn't be able to handle more. It had been a good sized bowl, enough to keep her satisfied for several hours probably, but after so long without eating, she felt like she could keep going and still feel empty. Or maybe that was something else.

And the soup had been good. Maybe just because she'd been so hungry, or maybe not. She didn't know what he'd put in it, and didn't much care. She could guess, and did guess, just to keep her mind from shutting down, carrots and potatoes, some spices she couldn't name, a couple hearty chunks of beef, or maybe pork.

She was nodding before even Foka had finished his bowl, though, and the medicine, or just the sleepiness had made her mind fuzzy. She felt like she wanted to tell him something, but she didn't really feel like talking. She just wanted him to stay. So she could sleep.

She knew that was crazy. It wasn't how she worked, Mal knew better than to sleep with a man in the room, especially under the influence. So, it was the medicine that made her hope he would stay, and the instinct that prevented her from asking. And besides, she still had to clean and tape up her stomach.

And there were still two spoonfuls of meat and broth at the bottom of her bowl. It was just that her spoon had gotten really, really heavy.
 
Foka kept an eye on her while he ate. At first, he had protested when he saw her pour out four of the red and white pills. He had thought he saw her put some of them back, and he had made the mistake of turning back to his meal before watching her pop the pills into her mouth.

He watched as she started to look like she was on painkillers. She finished her stew, and was nodding off just as he hit the half-way mark to the bottom of his bowl. Placing his bowl back on the tray, he got up, gently taking Mal by the shoulders and easing her back on the bed. Foka stayed off of her, but insisted she stay where she was. Moving around and trying to do things while on such strong painkillers was, one way or another, just a bad idea.

With Mal asleep, Foka finished his stew standing, then stacked the two bowls on the tray. He could take them back to the kitchen after he officially cleaned up. So, he made his way to the bathroom, pulling his dirty tank-top over his head and just tossing it onto the floor with what was already there. The door slid shut, and his pants and shorts came off next. The water turned on and it was lukewarm, but he really didn't mind. Warm was better than cold.

Foka turned to the square mirror mounted over the bathroom sink, looking at the blood smears that were still left on his face, and the dried blood that was layered across his chest. Everything important had passed -- at least to his knowledge, and he took a moment to appreciate the mess before it would be washed away. Blood, stains, the life force of another; it reminded him of power, of power that he had. A chill left goosebumps down his arms. The warm water was going to run out after long, so it was time to jump in.

***
​
Foka climbed out of the shower stall ten, fifteen minutes later. The water had gone cold, and the outside was warmer than it had been standing there, letting the water wash over him. He looked over to the pile of dirty clothes, then pushed them off to the side, dismissing them. They'd be thrown away later. A white towel was used to dry his hair most of the way, then it was tied around his waist. However unlikely it was that Mal would still be awake, he could recognize that it wouldn't be very appreciated if he were to walk around in the nude, showing off every piercing he had.

The bathroom door slid back open, and Foka went to rummage through the drawers of clothes. Just a plain, white t-shirt and jeans was all he really needed, though, shorts would be appreciated.
 
The hallucinations, if they could be called as much, started not long after Foka made her lay down. Mal didn't put up much of a fight, mostly because she was entirely convinced her conscious self had taken up a semi-permanent residence outside of her body. For the second time that day -- night? She'd more than lost track of time, even before the drugs started rearranging her concept of reality -- Mal could only watch as a girl in oversized borrowed clothes disappeared into a bed that seemed too big for her.

She didn't fall asleep right away, though Mal could tell even by the way she moved, like she'd forgotten her body was her own, that she was basically unconscious anyway. The girl rolled to her side, apparently oblivious to the angry red-and-black burn on her stomach, watching through half lidded eyes as the man who'd brought her her first meal in days disappeared through a door. She stayed that way long enough Mal was sort of surprised she didn't just pass out -- and she might have, for a few minutes -- instead placing a clumsy hand directly onto her stomach. Mal winced, but the girl in the bed did little more than whimper softly and stare at her hand as it came away covered in a clear, sticky liquid. Something seemed to occur to her then, very slowly, and she sat up awkwardly, nearly tipping out of the bed before catching herself on the tray Foka had left out, upending her mostly empty bowl of soup onto the floor.

Mal watched, intrigued as she was concerned, as the girl toddled unsteadily to the far side of the room and the sliding panel from where she must have seen Foka pull the painkillers. She struggled with the door for a few moments before the panel slid aside and she reached in to recover the first aid kit. It wasn't particularly overlarge and didn't look all that heavy, but the girl could hardly stand without swaying and struggled with it before almost dropping it. She caught it against her stomach, and this time, Mal gasped as the rough corners of the kit tore away a charred patch of skin. Again, the girl didn't do more than look down at herself, curious or confused, both arms wrapped securely, almost childishly, around the box.

She started to turn, maybe back toward the bed, and hit the corner of the wall instead. Apparently, it was the last hit her balance could take, and she toppled and fell, allowing herself to go completely to the floor without even trying to stop herself, seeming more concerned for the first aid kit she was so inexplicably fixated on.

She was too out of it to have been seriously bothered by the fall, though Mal noticed she didn't bother to get up, either, instead lying on her side, one arm still wrapped protectively around the box, the other limply fiddling with the locking mechanism to open it.
 
Foka nearly froze in his tracks. Droplets of cold water were shaken from his hair as he nearly skipped the few steps to where Mal laid, next to the dresser. What was this? What had she been thinking, if anything at all?

"Mal!" He called her, getting onto his knees besides her. What was wrong with her? He could have guessed she had been traumatized, but part of him doubted that that was the cause of this particular behavior. Carefully, he picked her up, pulled her part way onto his lap. "Vhat happened?" Foka asked, just a hint of urgency in his voice.
 
Mal saw Foka before the girl on the floor did. She was entirely consumed with her task, trying to figure out how to undo the flimsy metal clasps at the top of the first aid kit. Watching, Mal got the idea she didn't really know what she was doing, or why. There was only this one task to complete before her, and no reason not to do it. And she still clutched that box to her chest like it was her first born.

She didn't move or otherwise react when Foka went to his knees beside her, gently scooping her up, seemingly genuinely, strangely concerned. Mal found that odd and a little alarming, but the girl on the floor seemed entirely unaffected. Not frightened or curious in the slightest, though she clutched the box a bit more closely to her.

"Nothing," she mumbled quietly, sounding completely unbothered by the cares of the world. "I didn't do anything. I forgot the box and it wasn't on the bed, so I hadda get it, but it won't open..."

Mal wouldn't have guessed the girl was even aware she was speaking, but then she turned away just briefly form her task with the first aid kit, turning half-lidded green eyes on the man crouched above her. Her brow knit with something halfway between confusion and concern. She studied his face for a long time then said, "You went away. Your hair's wet."
 
Last edited:
Foka ignored her comment about his hair, his eyes fixed on how she was trying to open the medical kit. "Vhat do you need?" He reached for the box with a free hand, unlocking it after a moment. The way that she clutched it to her chest lead him to believe it wouldn't be easy to take it from her, and besides, he didn't even know what she wanted from the kit. He would let her rummage, an arm wrapped around her to keep her somewhat upright on his lap. He'd watch her, keep her from anything that could harm her.

In his mind, Foka had promised to help her, the bring her up from that scared woman who trembled in the corner. He would take her with him to the refugee camp, make sure she was safe, the same way his mother had tried to keep him safe from the wrath of the world. The feelings of empathy flickered back to life, buried under years of desensitization as Mal was in his arms, under his protection, however faulty and inexperienced that was.
 
Mal answered his question with a succinct, "Thank you," maybe not even aware he'd spoken in the first place. In her mind, or what was left of after days of torture and trauma and entirely too much medication and too little sleep, there was a thing that had to be done. Maybe lots of things. She couldn't remember what they were, but she had all the time in the world. Some part of her was vaguely aware Foka was worried, scared or something, and she didn't like it. But she was pretty sure she'd have time to fix that, too.

Abruptly, she felt herself fading and she her head after her chin settled against her chest just a moment too long. The box cradled to her chest, balanced on her knees, was open somehow. She couldn't remember how that had happened, but she wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Instead, she fumbled through it for a little bit, humming contentedly under her breath. The humming made it easier to stay awake -- that part was getting hard. Her fingers moved over strips of gauze and cotton balls and bottles of peroxide, tweezers, needles...she couldn't remember the names of any of them, but she was sure she'd know what she wanted when she found it.

"Did you have a TV when you were little?" she asked abruptly, still rummaging through the mismatched contents of the otherwise well-kept first aid kit. She had yet to show any sign of coherence beyond her single-minded focus on whatever was in that box. "There was one at the orphanage until right after the war started. They played this one...did you see it?"
 
"I did not have TV," he told her, listening for any sort of coherent pattern in her course of conversation. Foka still watched her hands closely, watched as she rummaged through the first aid kit. He couldn't help but wonder if she really knew what she was even looking for.

Water continued to drip from his hair, run down his back and bare chest. The blood had been washed away, and his skin was finally free of dirt and grime, but not the multitude of bruises that littered his body. Where he had been kicked and punched weren't as sore after the two or three days it had been, and the swelling around his eye was gone, leaving him with just the dark colors where the bruise was left behind. His chest rose and fell despite Mal being draped over his legs, his pulse firm and steady, beating against his battered ribs.
 
"Uh-huh," Mal murmured absentmindedly. Her grip around the first aid kit was going lax despite her best efforts to stay awake, and she had to pause to remind herself of what she was doing and where she was every couple of seconds. The talking helped, though. She knew that. It was hard to talk while you were sleeping. Maybe even impossible.

"I used to watch this one with my brothers," she went on, no longer even appearing to know she was talking, or that Foka was there, though when she found a small, unmarked jar, she reached into the first aid kit and seized it and handed it over her shoulder to him.

"Can you open that?" she asked, then dropped it without waiting for an answer, going back to searching for everything and nothing.

"It was called 'Left Behind'. It was about this boy and his talking dog, and they would...they would solve all these problems, y'know? Like...like mysteries..." Mal trailed off and yawned and shifted the first aid kit in her lap.

"This guy I was sleeping with when I got arrested, he had old posters in his bedroom. I think he was crazy. He drank and then he cried a lot. And he talked about the Sectids. And NUN. He said he knew both of them. He said..." Another yawn, another package of something pulled from the first aid kit and discarded. "He said they even worked together."
 
Foka continued to listen, though he pocketed the bottle that Mal handed him. The way she was acting, she didn't need any more medication -- he was sure. It was something about the way she was continuing to nod off, to talk to keep herself awake. At first, all he would have to do was to continue to hold her, tenderly, carefully. But, then she started to talk about this man she had been sleeping with, and how he had spoken to her.

This information about the Sectids, and the NUNs, something about them working together, he couldn't be sure if it was just how she was delirious, or if she was actually telling him this. Wait, did she even trust him that much, or did it matter with the drugs? Whatever the cause, Foka continued to listen.
 
"I was supposed to fix my stomach," Mal mumbled, though even she was losing words now. Foka had gone quiet, and there was no longer anyone left but herself and the confusion. The medication had pushed her to the end of her tether, somewhere between exhaustion and old blood loss. Her mind, protected from the trauma of their capture by the haze of the drugs themselves, had splintered and then softened into big, spongy, incoherent pieces, warped edges like puzzle pieces in the rain that didn't fit together no matter how hard she tried.

Had she been looking for something? For what? A dog? No, that was a cartoon...no, that was an orphanage memory...and were her brothers here? Solving mysteries maybe? There were too many pieces, too many fragments, and even the need to stay awake had faded to a dull inclination.

"In one...in one of the episodes, the dog...he can't find..can't find the sutures, and...and I would watch with my brother, not Taj, just Ash, Taj was too old. But I couldn't tell him that now, he'd be mad. That other man had posters and an alarm clock and a thermos with the dog on it. I saw him for a long time, he said he couldn't go home anymore, because...he didn't want his wife to see what they made him. He was always drunk and crying and...and screaming..."

She trailed off, curled into a limp ball around the first aid kit now loosely clutched against her raw belly. It was several moments, more than enough time to go to sleep, and maybe she had...

She hardly moved when she asked suddenly, "Where's my knife? I need my knife."
 
His heart didn't break for her. Yet, he still listened, still thought about what she said. It was obvious -- Mal was high out of her mind, but there was still truth to some of what she was saying, even if it was mixed up.

The knife was in the old pile of clothes, in the bathroom, but that wasn't something Foka thought would be wise for her to have. "It is safe," he told her simply. Everything he did with her at this point was careful; even the way he stole the box from her grasp and placed it to the side was slow and gentle.

Eventually, he slipped an arm under her legs to hold her stead as he got up from the floor, wavering a bit before he really found his balance with the weight of Mal in his arms. She was set back on the bed, and Foka had to stop for a moment to readjust his towel before he turned back to the box of supplies. She had said she needed to fix her stomach, which he could help with somewhat.

Taking the gauze, anti-biotic ointment, and bandages, he sat back on the edge of the bed, setting the supplies out in order. Ointment first, which he used his bare fingers to apply to the burn, barely touching her exposed belly. Excess was wiped off of his hands on the white towel. Then the gauze, then the bandages, a large hand sliding under her back a few times as he wrapped it around her middle. It was then that Foka took advantage of the painkillers, tightening the cloth enough to where nothing would fall out of place.
 
Foka was back and now on top of her instead of behind her. But she wasn't scared like last time. There wasn't anything much to be afraid of, or if there was, she couldn't think of where or when or why.

Mal thought maybe she'd moved, though she couldn't remember doing that, either. She felt lighter, too...she'd been doing something before this, hadn't she? Holding something...looking for something, maybe? Some important task she couldn't recall whether she'd finished, only now she was too sleepy for it to really matter.

Foka was sitting near her and his hands moved around her stomach in quick, bright flashes of pain that only barely broke through the stupor enough to remind her he was there at all. She stared at him through half-lidded eyes, losing seconds and minutes here and there when she'd nod off and forget to wake up again.

She was nearly gone by the time he finished tying the bandage, curled on one side again, oblivious, for the moment at least, to the world and events circling around her. Except Foka. She still watched him, almost rapt.

"Thank you for saving me," she said simply, before her eyelids finally drifted shut. Her words were slurred, her voice muffled by a stranger's pillow tucked under her mouth and chin. If she was nervous about falling asleep with a man in the room, it didn't show in her body language. "I don't think it's bad you killed those guys. I hurt Tex. I hurt him a lot."

She yawned and trailed off again, and was quiet for several minutes before mumbling one last thing. Only by this time she was really gone, and had no way of knowing whether the words ever actually made it to her lips.

"Don't lose the knife, okay? It's mine. I need it."
 
Foka had stopped listening after he was sure she was asleep, and had to do a double-take to try to catch the last thing she muttered. What he did next was almost a surprise, even to himself. Foka only noticed once the blanket was pulled up to Mal's shoulder, his hand on the trim of the sheet. He caught himself staring, lost in a single train of thought that didn't quite click. Was she comfortable? Foka worried for someone, and it was a mostly foreign sensation.

Sleep was a good idea, because evidently this was getting to his head. Foka stood, catching his towel as it fell from around his waist. Originally, he went to wrap it back around himself, but then, there was no conscious person there to see him anyways. Mal had to be asleep by then. So, the towel was discarded, left to the side as he closed up the first-aid kit, and tucked it back inside the drawer. Next, he rummaged through the clothes that were available, picking out a plain, white t-shirt with short sleeves, and then a pair of jeans, topped off with a decent-enough pair of shorts.

After putting the clean clothes on Foka had half a mind to go and clean up their mess, starting with the bowls that had been spilled on the floor. Those were picked up and the carpet was wiped down, but he stopped there. Mal had mentioned how he had left earlier. Would it be a good idea to leave her? Perhaps not... So, pulling out a few random articles of clothing and rolling them up as a make-shift pillow, Foka laid back on the floor next to the bed, though out of the way should Mal wake up while he was still there. He closed his eyes, an arm draped over his face, and set to work on drifting off to sleep. It would happen eventually..
 
Once Mal finally passed out, she was well and truly out. Whether is was exhaustion brought on from two days without sleep, or ruthless abuse at the hands of her captors, or dehydrations, or hunger, or just her mind shutting down at the end of unspeakable trauma, when the medicine finally tipped her over into the realm of unconsciousness, she stayed there, too deep even to dream, at least at first.

For a long time, there was nothing, not even movement. She stayed curled on her side, and even her heart rate had slowed enough so she was probably lucky she'd stopped at four pills instead of five. A train could have crashed through the wall just a few scant inches from where she slept, hair drying slowly, stomach finally bandaged, and she wouldn't have known any the wiser.

It wasn't peace, quite, but it was a gentler respite than she'd been allowed in years, and if there was something wrong, she was too tired to let it bother her. But nothing lasts forever. It was nearly twenty-four hours in total before she began to stir again, however slow as her waking might have been.
 
Foka had woken up after about seven hours of being asleep on the floor. He got up rather slowly, stretching out the stiff muscles in his back, his arms, tilting his head from side to side, working out any kinks. Picking up the clothes he had wrapped up to use for a pillow, he stood, reaching out to stuff them back in the drawer. During the night he hadn't heard anything from Mal, and so he leaned over to check on her, looking her over carefully. She was still breathing.

He had waited for about a half an hour before deciding she likely wasn't going to wake up any time soon. So, he gathered the dirty clothes over one arm and took up the tray of bowls and silverware, giving the occupied bed one last glance before leaving the room, the metallic door sliding shut behind him.

Going about the chores was easy enough; washing the dishes in the kitchen, putting away the leftover stew. There was no sort of dishwasher, though given the sort of people who lived on this particular, Foka had expected to find one. In the end it was no big deal, and the dishes were ran through the whole cycle of washed and dried much faster than if he had used a machine to do it. Next was to find some place to wash clothes, though eventually Foka decided that it would just be best to toss the old, bloodied rags.

Foka had returned to the bedroom often, thoughts of Mal's welfare nagging at the back of his mind. After a while, the time between him checking up on her grew longer and longer, especially the farther he explored the ship. After several trips through the halls, Foka found the navigational bridge, and managed to plot a relatively slow course towards the outer orbit of the solar-system Earth called home. The slow pace was due largely to the things Mal had said the night before, tidbits of how NUN and the Sectids were working together. If that was the case, it would be best to stay under the radar, and not join a refugee colony.

Once twenty-four hours rolled around, Foka was on his way back to the room, wiping his right forearm across his eyes. It felt good to move around so much, to be active, but considering how little he had done in the past few days, Father Russia was tired and ready to sleep. He entered the room quietly, used to the idea that Mal wasn't planning on waking up too soon. Sleep was a good thing for someone who had been through so many traumas, and Foka could understand that, so long as she was still breathing. So, he only gave her a quick check to make sure she was in fact still alive before he moved into the bathroom to wash up.

He came back out after a few minutes, pulling on a leg of his jeans, which were discarded near the bathroom door, his t-shirt following suit. He bunched them up the same way as he had the night before. It was likely safe to assume he didn't have much longer of Mal being unconscious, and he was certain she wouldn't appreciate finding him in bed next to her. So, being careful and quiet, he slipped off one of the blankets from the bed, being sure not to disturb her too much. He tossed it down with everything else before setting down on his makeshift pile, pulling the blanket over his middle as he rolled onto his back. He spared the bed another glance, watching for a moment to see if she moved.
 
She knew the drugs were starting to wear off, because she could move and feel and think again. Well, maybe she didn't know. Mal wasn't quite conscious yet, but she wasn't floating in that big black void, either, where there was virtually no knowledge or pain or anything.

Things were starting to come back. Like the pain. The pain came back first, but she didn't mind that so much, because it cleared her head and let her know she was still a person, and also that doubling up on the dosage of a mysterious medicine was probably a bad idea.

She was a long time in waking up, almost half an hour, while she sorted through what she could find still caught under a tar of sleep. The pain came first, and with that, the memory, the shock of it all held at by by a fog of medication. Her belly hurt the worst, but it didn't feel so raw as it had before. She'd been branded, she remembered. Mark and claimed by a man who had taken more than her health from her. That memory bade her whimper some, toss and turn in the sheets, and with it came the memory of motion and movement. Her body was at least still marginally her own, and she slowly claimed it from that place of unconsciousness.

As memories became more and more vivid, fever bright in her mind's eye, her waking became less calm. She was supposed to be fighting, she remembered. Not sleeping. Fighting. What if the men came back? What if Tex came back? She felt too hot and too cold all at once, shivering and sweating and then shivering again as her frenzied motions wound the sheets around her arms and legs and chest while she fought against them.

After a time, they became more bonds, more restrictions, and once again, she was strapped to a cold hard table, and someone -- Tex? -- was leering over her, waiting. Mal could feel herself trembling again, but this time, she knew better.

"Don't," she murmured, and her struggles against the bed sheets became slowly more frenzied. "Go away. Leave me alone...Go away."
 
He had waited and listened, watching the rhythmic up and down of a breathing Mal. Then she began to move more, and more, and he slowly got up from his place on the floor.

"Mal?" He. Called quietly, leaning over the bed to watch her expressions as they became more and more desperate. She was fighting against something, against someone, and then the blankets wrapped around and held her down. The more frenzied she became, the more worry that rose in Foka's chest. He reached down and tried to untangle her, his jewelry dangling against his ears and chest as he moved to help. It didn't occur to him that he may have taken her by the wrist or the ankle as he attempted to unwind her from the covers, his large hands firm on her.

"Mal, vake up!" Once the blankets were off, he held her face in his hands, ice cold eyes scanning her, waiting for a response, for her to wake up. He stayed off of her though, one knee on the bed to keep him steady as he tried to pull her from whatever nightmare-like visions she was having.
 
Status
Not open for further replies.
Top Bottom
Back