CAMERON MONAGHAN IMAGINES

Poppy. |pt. 2| (Jerome)

A severe ache pangs in your wrists.

"Rise and shine, Poppy."

You crack your tired eyes open and spot the silhouette of the familiar ginger. You scan his body in a gaze. You probably seem incredibly confused.

"Poppy!" He raises his voice. You flinch and crunch your eyes shut. "Get. Up." Jerome stands at the side of the bed, leaning over the edge to get his face near your own.

You lift your hand to block the sun Jerome ever so politely allowed to scorch through the windows he's opened the curtains for. A strong headache arises sharply.

"We're going outside." He stays close to your face. You push yourself to the side and prop up on your elbows. Your mouth is dry and cottony. It's been nearly a day since your last sip of water.

"Jerome, water." The words are pushed out of your mouth with pain. Your throats screams at you for attempting to force a voice out. You sound like a dying cat.

His immediate reaction is to stand in fury. His green eyes locked on your distorted face. His lips tighten and jaw clenches. "Fffine." His words don't come with ease. He stomps out the the room.

He does not do well his commands. Control issues?

You are wistful for happy company. Any thoughts of your family are shoved out of your mind to avoid the sorrow. They must be spending hours bawling and searching in an endless loop of pain. No. Don't think about that. Instead, you focus on the burns left imprinted on your wrists. It appears like someone drove sharp circles in you, trying to reach the bone. The flesh is so mangled, a scab will never cover the wound. How will it ever heal?

"Poppy, my dear. Water." Jerome's voice trails in and he appears with your saving grace. The water is chilled, gliding down the back of your throat. The water separates your sticky esophagus. Upon finishing it, you place the glass on the nightstand.

"Jesus." Jerome takes hold of your arm and examines your wrist. His face says 'concerned', but his tone says 'delighted' as if he's glad you're hurt.

He twists your arm to analyze the full wound. He catches sight of the matching burn on your other wrist.

"It hurt?" He says in monotone. Like he really cares...

"Yes." You say, reminding yourself of his promise that this said 'Tabitha' would take care of it.

"Don't move. I got it." Jerome swiftly exits. His red robe is manipulated with his body, the back flapping in the air.

You're in your clothes clothes from yesterday. A Christmas sweater and leggings. It did allow some comfort, but in no way was comfort on the list of worries. The headache still pulses your skull and hunger sweeps your insides now that thirst is no longer an issue. Hopefully, Jerome has made you a sandwich or anything sustainable.

"Here!" He returns two light blue ace bandages. They're a shade or two darker than the sky, but still light. It's a calming color.

Jerome grips your arm and begins casting your wound. The bandage stings the torn flesh and you gasp a little to hold in a wince. Jerome snaps his eyes at you without saying a word.

You tighten your stomach and feel your face turning blue. Holding in the pain is tremendously more difficult than you'd thought it would be. Each bandage fiber presses on your open skin, pricking it with what feels like poison. Jerome wrapping it so tight made it all worse.

He brings the bandage over your thumb and continues wrapping in the figure 8 design. In the end, you look like a sort of boxer who is avoiding spraining their wrist. Yet, this is much more painful than that.