The Clinic - Monday, Fandom Time - Wednesday, Marvel Time.
Emma no longer knew what day it was, or even if it was morning or afternoon. All she knew is that she was exhausted.
Every time they came in to gave her pills or an injection, she fought. Kicking and biting until one of the larger orderlies held her down, or hit her until she stopped moving. It hurt to move, now, and the whispers skittering along the edge of her mind were starting to grow louder and louder.
She couldn't focus enough to shield, and the patients of the Clinic were starting to bleed over until she didn't know where they ended and she began. The anorexic daughters and the chronically depressed sons, the residents of the cells sitting in their lithium hazes...the despair and pain and resignation was making it harder and harder to fight back. Harder to remember who or what she was waiting for.
And every time she fought back, each insult that she hurled or fight she picked, each meal she threw at their heads, they made her hurt for it. The 'nice' orderly had given up and left her to the tender mercies of some of his coworkers. Never leaving bruises in a place easily seen, no, but Emma had been kicked in the ribs so many times that it even hurt to breathe. And nothing permanent that would earn her father's wrath.
She had thought nothing could be worse than losing herself under Jareth's influence. She had been wrong.
[OOC: Establishy! NFB, NFI, OOC = OK. CUT FOR EVERY SINGLE REASON THAT SOMETHING SHOULD BE CUT.]
Every time they came in to gave her pills or an injection, she fought. Kicking and biting until one of the larger orderlies held her down, or hit her until she stopped moving. It hurt to move, now, and the whispers skittering along the edge of her mind were starting to grow louder and louder.
She couldn't focus enough to shield, and the patients of the Clinic were starting to bleed over until she didn't know where they ended and she began. The anorexic daughters and the chronically depressed sons, the residents of the cells sitting in their lithium hazes...the despair and pain and resignation was making it harder and harder to fight back. Harder to remember who or what she was waiting for.
And every time she fought back, each insult that she hurled or fight she picked, each meal she threw at their heads, they made her hurt for it. The 'nice' orderly had given up and left her to the tender mercies of some of his coworkers. Never leaving bruises in a place easily seen, no, but Emma had been kicked in the ribs so many times that it even hurt to breathe. And nothing permanent that would earn her father's wrath.
She had thought nothing could be worse than losing herself under Jareth's influence. She had been wrong.
[OOC: Establishy! NFB, NFI, OOC = OK. CUT FOR EVERY SINGLE REASON THAT SOMETHING SHOULD BE CUT.]