As she wakes, her eyes are drown'd by white, the ceiling, the walls, just like her thoughts...blank. She finally gets a hold of h'rself. Tries to get up- it hurts...what does?...everything. She sees her arms. Bruised. What on Earth, a knock or two. But Tristia's hearing was bl'nded by her scarred person. A lady enters, seeing one in such a state, such ignorance, such shock, much vuln'rability, so they alike. "Aham", she t'rnt. "Miss, the doctor has asked me to check on you.", a blank stare, "Are you alright? Do you need anything? Call anyone or maybe talk?", she shakes her head. What a lovely meeting. "Well...if you do need anything just use that bell. The doctor will be here shortly." A nod. A leave. She breaks in a rainstorm. A portrait paint'd, but no paintbrush. She takes off her bandages. A cut on her thigh. A cut on her arm. A cut in her delicate light skin mimics the cut in her thought. One, two, one, two. Did she do this to herself? Must have, but why? And when? She cries, they know why, but who's- a knock.
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Tristitia Autem est de Castitate
General FictionCan someone's life get any more unfortunate? Latin influences on some phrases used. No mistakes in the published text are made, the irregularity of it is intentional. If you are sensitive to topics such as rape, do not read this. If some parts are m...
