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nurse-boy.livejournal.com[[backdated to around 4:00pm Tuesday]]
[Rory wakes up in bed as if from a nap. Which is ... weird, considering he doesn't need sleep anymore. And when he blinks the sleep out of his eyes, he can't see for shit--and he's automatically reaching for the bedside table to fumble for his glasses.
He hasn't worn glasses since .... secondary school. What the hell?
And Amy isn't in the bed next to him, which is concerning, and once he slips his glasses on he can see that he seems to be in a dormitory of sorts. There's three other beds in the room. His heart speeds up with worry. What's the castle playing at now?
... His heart speeds up with worry.
Nearly panicking, Rory sits straight up in bed and starts pawing at his chest, face, stomach, everything. He has a heartbeat, a pulse in his wrist. He's breathing, and if he holds his breath he eventually has to quit, gasping for air. He's even breaking out into a flop sweat. He hasn't been able to do this since--well, ever since before the Godhand came.
With a yelp he jumps out of bed and automatically runs for the nearest desk, yanking open the drawer and rifling through it for something sharp, like a pair of scissors. He doesn't even notice yet that he seems to have reverted back to being a tall, gangly thing that is all legs and arms and elbows and no grace whatsoever (another hallmark of his teenage years, along with the glasses). Eventually finding some scissors, he opens the blades and holds his left hand out, palm up. He has to prove to himself that this is real--he's human again--and so, he digs the sharp end of the scissor blade into the middle of his palm and drags.
And promptly shrieks in pain as a deep cut appears, blood welling up and spilling onto his palm. He drops the scissors and runs for his journal on the bedside table, grabbing his left hand with his right and pressing his thumb hard into the wound to try and staunch the blood flow. Even so, anyone looking at their journals will now notice some bloody fingerprints appearing on the page, along with a steady drip-drip of new blood appearing]
Um--uh--ow--is there a, uh, doctor or A&E anywhere, here? I've uh .... [more blood drips onto the page] I think I need stitches.
((open to anyone, especially if you live in room B9! Barbara Gordon, 7, John Marston--meet your new roommate, the foreign British kid))
((also this is a placeholder post, going to bed now, will be at work in a few hours ready to tag! just wanted to get this up before I fell too far behind))
[Rory wakes up in bed as if from a nap. Which is ... weird, considering he doesn't need sleep anymore. And when he blinks the sleep out of his eyes, he can't see for shit--and he's automatically reaching for the bedside table to fumble for his glasses.
He hasn't worn glasses since .... secondary school. What the hell?
And Amy isn't in the bed next to him, which is concerning, and once he slips his glasses on he can see that he seems to be in a dormitory of sorts. There's three other beds in the room. His heart speeds up with worry. What's the castle playing at now?
... His heart speeds up with worry.
Nearly panicking, Rory sits straight up in bed and starts pawing at his chest, face, stomach, everything. He has a heartbeat, a pulse in his wrist. He's breathing, and if he holds his breath he eventually has to quit, gasping for air. He's even breaking out into a flop sweat. He hasn't been able to do this since--well, ever since before the Godhand came.
With a yelp he jumps out of bed and automatically runs for the nearest desk, yanking open the drawer and rifling through it for something sharp, like a pair of scissors. He doesn't even notice yet that he seems to have reverted back to being a tall, gangly thing that is all legs and arms and elbows and no grace whatsoever (another hallmark of his teenage years, along with the glasses). Eventually finding some scissors, he opens the blades and holds his left hand out, palm up. He has to prove to himself that this is real--he's human again--and so, he digs the sharp end of the scissor blade into the middle of his palm and drags.
And promptly shrieks in pain as a deep cut appears, blood welling up and spilling onto his palm. He drops the scissors and runs for his journal on the bedside table, grabbing his left hand with his right and pressing his thumb hard into the wound to try and staunch the blood flow. Even so, anyone looking at their journals will now notice some bloody fingerprints appearing on the page, along with a steady drip-drip of new blood appearing]
Um--uh--ow--is there a, uh, doctor or A&E anywhere, here? I've uh .... [more blood drips onto the page] I think I need stitches.
((open to anyone, especially if you live in room B9! Barbara Gordon, 7, John Marston--meet your new roommate, the foreign British kid))
((also this is a placeholder post, going to bed now, will be at work in a few hours ready to tag! just wanted to get this up before I fell too far behind))
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