(no subject)
Run, run, as fast as you will, I can catch you, little gingerbread girl.
Trisha ran and ran, stumbling again through the woods, running heedless of her direction as flames bloomed around her, snatching at her feet as the little explosions lit on her heels. The God of the Lost had let someone else out to play, and Trisha knew in her gut that she was being driven, scared, her eyes white with terror, toward the thing with wasps inside.
Oh cripes. Oh, no.
She felt something catch her shoulder.
Trisha jerked awake, alarmed and disoriented, her heart pounding hard in her chest as if she really had been running, as if she really had almost been caught. But that wasn't it. As the buzzing of the wasps and the ringing in her ears faded, she saw that she was in the infirmary. They'd woken her again as they had been doing since she'd been brought in. Every few hours, someone with a gentle voice and a soft hand would wake her from much needed rest, talking to her for awhile before they let her go back to sleep. She couldn't remember half of the conversations or the people.
It was morning now she saw and someone, the person who had awakened her, was talking to her.
"What?" she said sleepily, wincing as she shook her head to clear it.
[Find a disoriented Trisha in the infirmary. She was a minor victim of Norman Osborn. She's suffered from a concussion, a few burns and cuts, and several bruises, the largest and most visible on the side of her face into her hairline. All tags welcome. Timed for Friday morning.]
Trisha ran and ran, stumbling again through the woods, running heedless of her direction as flames bloomed around her, snatching at her feet as the little explosions lit on her heels. The God of the Lost had let someone else out to play, and Trisha knew in her gut that she was being driven, scared, her eyes white with terror, toward the thing with wasps inside.
Oh cripes. Oh, no.
She felt something catch her shoulder.
Trisha jerked awake, alarmed and disoriented, her heart pounding hard in her chest as if she really had been running, as if she really had almost been caught. But that wasn't it. As the buzzing of the wasps and the ringing in her ears faded, she saw that she was in the infirmary. They'd woken her again as they had been doing since she'd been brought in. Every few hours, someone with a gentle voice and a soft hand would wake her from much needed rest, talking to her for awhile before they let her go back to sleep. She couldn't remember half of the conversations or the people.
It was morning now she saw and someone, the person who had awakened her, was talking to her.
"What?" she said sleepily, wincing as she shook her head to clear it.
[Find a disoriented Trisha in the infirmary. She was a minor victim of Norman Osborn. She's suffered from a concussion, a few burns and cuts, and several bruises, the largest and most visible on the side of her face into her hairline. All tags welcome. Timed for Friday morning.]