begin again (begin again)
Who: whatmusicislike, ofthediaphragm, hippocraticly
What: Keeping Hanna from bleeding out.
When: July 6th, twilight.
Where: The town center, near the fountain and tunnel and stuff.
Summary: Before Hanna can take the first precarious steps toward normal life, she should probably see to that bullet in her hip.
Rating: PG?
Hanna does not know how long she's been walking--one hand pressed to her side, the other hanging loose and empty. She'd dropped the gun after the bullet did what an arrow couldn't, turned around, and took her first wobbling steps toward the Wilhelm Grimm house, secure in the knowledge that she would not be followed. Each step came less decisively, until she could hear her father's voice--her father? her father--warning her that she has not been vigilant. The blood has continued to spread out from the hole in her side.
She blinks, and the impenetrable green surrounding her disappears. The mouth of a tunnel fills her view once more, but it is not the wolf's maw; the buildings that ring the edge of her vision when she reels back a step are none she has seen before. Not Moroccan, not Spanish, nor French, nor German. Nor hers, the thought of her wooden home in the pines coming unbidden.
She is not focusing. Adapt or die, she reminds herself, adapt or die, adapt or die--and takes a step with only slightly more assurance, glancing at every face and every building. A place to slip away to is all she needs, where she can sit unnoticed and call up the steps to removing a bullet.
What: Keeping Hanna from bleeding out.
When: July 6th, twilight.
Where: The town center, near the fountain and tunnel and stuff.
Summary: Before Hanna can take the first precarious steps toward normal life, she should probably see to that bullet in her hip.
Rating: PG?
Hanna does not know how long she's been walking--one hand pressed to her side, the other hanging loose and empty. She'd dropped the gun after the bullet did what an arrow couldn't, turned around, and took her first wobbling steps toward the Wilhelm Grimm house, secure in the knowledge that she would not be followed. Each step came less decisively, until she could hear her father's voice--her father? her father--warning her that she has not been vigilant. The blood has continued to spread out from the hole in her side.
She blinks, and the impenetrable green surrounding her disappears. The mouth of a tunnel fills her view once more, but it is not the wolf's maw; the buildings that ring the edge of her vision when she reels back a step are none she has seen before. Not Moroccan, not Spanish, nor French, nor German. Nor hers, the thought of her wooden home in the pines coming unbidden.
She is not focusing. Adapt or die, she reminds herself, adapt or die, adapt or die--and takes a step with only slightly more assurance, glancing at every face and every building. A place to slip away to is all she needs, where she can sit unnoticed and call up the steps to removing a bullet.