Got to be Strong [OPEN]
Apr 18, 2012 6:21:15 GMT -5
Post by aigbta on Apr 18, 2012 6:21:15 GMT -5
QUARA O'BRIEN
I open my eyes, quickly wishing I hadn't as the waves of pain echo through my body. I slowly inhale, analyzing how bad my wounds her today. Definitely a broken rib, and my ankle is throbbing painfully. I move it just a touch, and finding that I can, and it's not total agony, I know it's not broken, probably just sprained. I sit up ever so slowly, my eyes flickering to the small pool of my own blood on the floor. Another drop of blood slides down my nose, landing in the pool with a small splash.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my head, to get rid of the incessant ringing in my ears so I can hear properly in case Olhado or one of his lackeys decides to return for more. Curling my feet closer to my body to cover my nakedness, I lean on my hands, suddenly yelping at the lash of pain shooting up my wrist, as I collapse on it. Great, another broken bone to deal with. Thanks, bro. I carefully get myself to my knees with my good arm, lifting the non-sprained foot up. Squeezing my eyes shut, I stand, holding my broken wrist to my body and favoring my sprained ankle.
I hobble like this, ignoring the lancing pain that comes with each step I take, all the way to the base of the stairs, looking up them. I feel like an ant at the base of a monstrous mountain. Of course, the feeling of immense pain tends to always be associated with this set of stairs because as soon as I wake up, I must hurry upstairs for fear of Olhado, my brother and all of them.
Thirteen steps later, I've made it all the way up, and I limp towards the bathroom to wash off the blood. I wince as the tattered cloth scrapes over the cut on my forehead, my neck and chest. I tie my curly red mane back with a big of cord, and wrap a towel around my body. I slowly push open the door to make my way to my room.
Or at least, the room I sleep in. It's actually my older sister Quim's, but she's long since dead, and I doubt she's coming back for it. If this were my room, it would be less black, less dark, and a whole lot less goth. A nice rich purple color, some white here or there, a touch of royal blue. Homemade leather or twine bracelets and stacks of herbs, perfectly organized. Not the evil looking bits of metal. No, this isn't my room, but Olhado never comes in here for his grief, so this has become my sort of safe haven, ever since she died when I was three. She was murdered in the games, killing my nephew inside her. That was one year before my parents turned on me.
A jolt of pain in my ankle jolts me out of my reverie, and I realize I need to bind the broken bones before they set improperly. After I throw on a loose t-shirt, some sturdy jeans, and old, worn leather bracelets I use to cover the scars on my wrists, I walk slowly to the window, feeling the rub of the rug on the soles of me feet. I open the window very carefully with my good hand to watch for squeaking, and slowly slide out onto the waiting tree branch, shimmying painfully down to the truck, clenching my good hand and biting my lip to stop from screaming as I drop down to the ground with a soft thump.
Keeping my bad wrist pressed close to my body, I limp determinedly to the wide and hollow sycamore tree by the edge of the fence, where I keep all of my herbs for instances like this--which happen often. I pull out the proper ones for alleviating pain and to help heal my sore body. I bind my wrist, ribs, and eventually my ankle to help me walk more easily, putting a poultice on all of my cuts, to make sure they don't get infected.
Once everything is healed, cleaned, bound and ready, I turn away from the tree to wander the town square, flinching at every sudden movement, and not wanting in any way to go back to my prison cell I call a home.
I open my eyes, quickly wishing I hadn't as the waves of pain echo through my body. I slowly inhale, analyzing how bad my wounds her today. Definitely a broken rib, and my ankle is throbbing painfully. I move it just a touch, and finding that I can, and it's not total agony, I know it's not broken, probably just sprained. I sit up ever so slowly, my eyes flickering to the small pool of my own blood on the floor. Another drop of blood slides down my nose, landing in the pool with a small splash.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my head, to get rid of the incessant ringing in my ears so I can hear properly in case Olhado or one of his lackeys decides to return for more. Curling my feet closer to my body to cover my nakedness, I lean on my hands, suddenly yelping at the lash of pain shooting up my wrist, as I collapse on it. Great, another broken bone to deal with. Thanks, bro. I carefully get myself to my knees with my good arm, lifting the non-sprained foot up. Squeezing my eyes shut, I stand, holding my broken wrist to my body and favoring my sprained ankle.
I hobble like this, ignoring the lancing pain that comes with each step I take, all the way to the base of the stairs, looking up them. I feel like an ant at the base of a monstrous mountain. Of course, the feeling of immense pain tends to always be associated with this set of stairs because as soon as I wake up, I must hurry upstairs for fear of Olhado, my brother and all of them.
Thirteen steps later, I've made it all the way up, and I limp towards the bathroom to wash off the blood. I wince as the tattered cloth scrapes over the cut on my forehead, my neck and chest. I tie my curly red mane back with a big of cord, and wrap a towel around my body. I slowly push open the door to make my way to my room.
Or at least, the room I sleep in. It's actually my older sister Quim's, but she's long since dead, and I doubt she's coming back for it. If this were my room, it would be less black, less dark, and a whole lot less goth. A nice rich purple color, some white here or there, a touch of royal blue. Homemade leather or twine bracelets and stacks of herbs, perfectly organized. Not the evil looking bits of metal. No, this isn't my room, but Olhado never comes in here for his grief, so this has become my sort of safe haven, ever since she died when I was three. She was murdered in the games, killing my nephew inside her. That was one year before my parents turned on me.
A jolt of pain in my ankle jolts me out of my reverie, and I realize I need to bind the broken bones before they set improperly. After I throw on a loose t-shirt, some sturdy jeans, and old, worn leather bracelets I use to cover the scars on my wrists, I walk slowly to the window, feeling the rub of the rug on the soles of me feet. I open the window very carefully with my good hand to watch for squeaking, and slowly slide out onto the waiting tree branch, shimmying painfully down to the truck, clenching my good hand and biting my lip to stop from screaming as I drop down to the ground with a soft thump.
Keeping my bad wrist pressed close to my body, I limp determinedly to the wide and hollow sycamore tree by the edge of the fence, where I keep all of my herbs for instances like this--which happen often. I pull out the proper ones for alleviating pain and to help heal my sore body. I bind my wrist, ribs, and eventually my ankle to help me walk more easily, putting a poultice on all of my cuts, to make sure they don't get infected.
Once everything is healed, cleaned, bound and ready, I turn away from the tree to wander the town square, flinching at every sudden movement, and not wanting in any way to go back to my prison cell I call a home.
