the wolves slept } raisa&sin { blitz

She walks through silent halls, cherry candy on her tongue — and with a smile framed by red lips, she knows that she shouldn’t be out this late. Most of her siblings are already asleep at this hour, patients tossing and turning in their cots, but the night and the Mortuus family have always been famed for their affairs; it’s clear that she’s not the only one who’s still awake. And it’s a good excuse to have at the ready in the chance of Eirlys coming out from around a corner and asking what her business is in snooping around the hospital — because, ‘Hey! It’s not just me!’

Her eldest sister never comes, and the silence remains undisturbed aside from the coughs and grunts of the lost and dying. Death lives here and she doesn’t tell him to go — he kisses her ears and whispers promises, and it’s a relationship that she’s told herself she’s conquered. He holds her close and their fingers are locked together, but she opens up her hands and suddenly he’s gone. More things than just souls can be left behind as ghosts, she’s realized — and the halls are home to phantom figures dancing in white satin, painting scarlet on the walls with their wrists. Living a bleached existence is a cruelty that she could never endure, so she leaves their colors alone to stain.

She knows exactly where she is when she pokes her head into one of the operating rooms, curiously pursing her lips as she looks around the dimly lit space. Making her way over to the lone workbench, she stares down at the dried blood on its surface with a tilting of her head. There’s a light hanging above her, and she looks up at it until her eyes start to water from the sting, blinking and shaking her head to remove the feeling of unease. She’s dizzy, so she props herself up on the table, lying herself down on the cool metal despite its dirtiness. The smell of iron hits her nose and she inhales, finding security in the moment. All homes are built on rust.

She sighs and lets a hand dangle over the edge, open and inviting. There’s a breathing beneath her that’s coming from foreign lungs, but it’s clear that the sound does not belong to Death. It’s far too alive. She twitches each finger and counts to five;
— “Sin? Are you under there? Help me to sleep.”