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(art credits: shuploc on Instagram) ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ 𓆩𓆪𒈞 ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒
⚠️Contains⚠️ Blood, gore, violence, nudity
Currently, there are three soaking-wet tampons in the little grey bin near your shivering right foot. The cold metallic scent of your blood merges with the stench of disinfectant and piss in the ladies' room. The overhead light flickers every five minutes as if to show you that your paycheck wasn't the only transaction that was being ignored.
You thrust the fourth tampon into the hole left by the bullet, which now lay extracted near your blood-stained feet. The cotton fibres channel the blood into the core of the tampon, dying the pristine white a deep crimson.
Water drips from the head of the handheld faucet mounted on the wall. One of the many random items that Alchemax personnel loved citing as achievements in a weird imitation of European sophistication. There's a faded Italian company name on the metal underneath the green grime. Your eyelids flutter as you try to focus on anything but the pain. Your hyperventilating mind decides to think about how the grime was limescale from the hard water in the area, turned green from the copper in the alloyed metal that the faucet was made of.
This shouldn't be hurting this bad. You were a superhero for crying out loud.
Shit, you bite the insides of your cheek. You press the tampon against your right calf with the shin of your left and raise your trembling fingers.
The iridescent web strands stretch between them like gossamer bridges, waiting to be woven into spells. You exhale as you carefully pull a strand over another. And then you loop the next one over the first. Rabbit comes out of the hole, goes under the hill and over the bush, around the tre-
Snap! The rabbit dies. You stare at the broken ends of your web flailing in the stillness of the stall. You try to get the rabbit back home about twenty more times.
You wind up staring at twenty rabbit corpses.
You click your tongue and toss the soaked tampon into the grey bin. You pull out the fifth tampon and stuff it in.
Healing webs had always been a headache to you as a witch. Your healing factor is as a result forced into working overtime to stitch the muscles back together. With a specially brewed healing potion or a good healing web, the wound should be better within a matter of minutes.
With just your healing factor, a wound this serious would take one whole day. Your teeth clamp over your lower lip as the sting alleviates a bit. You didn't have a day on your hands to track down the were-spider running loose in your city.
The dull grey tiles that your feet rest on are stained pink, and you wonder what the janitor would think of the mess. You grimace at your skewed reflection on the shiny copper surface of the bullet. There's a splatter of blood across the base of the white ceramic toilet seat you were sitting on. It's a crime scene.
