Today's art is done by me! (Wonder what's he looking at)
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Saturday.
You wake to pain.
Not the dull, manageable kind from a pulled muscle or a restless night, but a deep, stabbing ache that blooms beneath your ribs like a fresh bruise every time you inhale. It stops you cold for a moment, eyes half-opened, breath caught halfway, body frozen in that fragile space between sleep and agony.
The ceiling overhead is blurry at first, glowing faintly in the soft morning light cutting through the curtains. Dust motes drift through the sunbeam, swirling lazily like tiny galaxies suspended in the air. You blink slowly. Your lashes are heavy. Your limbs are heavier.
The sheets clinging to your legs feel like they weigh ten kilos.
You take a breath that is too deep.
Pain punches through you, sharp enough that your hand flies instinctively to your ribs, fingers brushing the tender edges of your bandages.
"...fuck," you whisper, voice cracking.
It is Saturday, which means nothing except that you do not have work, though right now, that is the least of your problems.
You lie for a bit longer, staring blankly at the ceiling, feeling the dull vibration of the floor when a car drives past outside. The whole room feels distant and muted, as if you are underwater, and the world is somewhere above the surface, muffled and unreachable.
Eventually, you lower your eyes, your abdomen is a mess, splashes of purple and blue and red blooming over your skin like storm clouds. Some areas are swollen. Some wrapped in white gauze, held down with duct tape you found last minute, and it pulls your skin when you move.
You attempt to shift your weight.
Instantly, you regret it.
A lightning bolt of pain tears through your torso so abruptly that your breath stops mid-inhale. Your vision tunnels, darkens at the edges. It takes several slow seconds before the world steadies again.
Yep. Absolutely need stronger painkillers.
You swallow hard and reach for your phone on the bedside table. The movement is small, but your ribs scream anyway. You grit your teeth and grab the phone.
The screen lights up.
8:00 AM.
Not too early, not too late. Enough time to pretend you are okay, long enough to make breakfast, before the hospital lectures you about "overexertion" and "letting yourself heal properly."
You swing your legs off the bed, planting your feet on the floorboards. Your entire body protests the shift in weight; every muscle is stiff and overused.
Hunched slightly, one hand braced on the wall. You are still in your bra and underwear, clothes abandoned on the floor in a messy trail leading back from the bathroom. You nudge them aside with your foot as you limp toward the kitchen, each step a reminder of the bruises you have collected last night.
The kitchen, when you reach it, is cold. The tiles chill your feet instantly, making you wince. The sunlight beams through the window, casting a soft glow over the counter. Dishes sit piled beside the sink, still unwashed. A coat is draped over the back of a chair. A mug sits abandoned on the table, a faint ring of dried coffee clinging to the inside.
You pull open the fridge.
The bright interior light blinds you for a second. Cool air rushes out and skims across your stomach, making you shiver and wrap an arm instinctively around your ribs.
YOU ARE READING
Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)
Romance"Dude, I think I miss working as the Dispatcher..." It wasn't supposed to be like this. One minute, I was behind a desk, pushing papers. Next, I was thrown into chaos. I used to only read about it in incident reports. Somewhere along the way, I stop...
