Blind! Prompto AU

Wound

And from the bottle came a strong, pungent smell.

Alcohol.

I double-checked the door was shut and gave the handle a tug to be sure it was locked. It was. Then, I stripped off my shirts.

My fingers felt gently over bare skin. I could feel the blood, some of it old, sticky; under the padding of my thumb I could slowly work it off. In other places, I found, it still ran thick and fresh. I wiped my bloodied hand on my pants, not knowing where else to. I picked up the alcohol, grabbed that rag, and poured it on.

At first it felt good. The cool, wet cloth cleansed my skin, and in the vaguest sense, I could trick my mind into believing I were back in Lucis, camping with the others, cleaning myself by the river after a long day. But, eventually, I had to tip the bottle over the rag again and the illusion was shattered. I went on scrubbing, more depressed than I ever thought I could feel.

All breath escaped me in a sudden cry of pain, a whipped dog's whimper. I dropped the rag instantly but fought the impulse to clutch my side, knowing it would only make it worse. After hours of leaving it alone, the feeling had almost become numb. Now, it stung fierce as hellfire.

I willed my bare hand to wander over the thick laceration that lied just below my ribs. Pressing into it with my forefingers, even gently, made me sick. The feeling of it was slimy like raw flesh. I didn't want to imagine what it would feel like once the knife was out.

I dreaded the thought. All of my being was begging, pleading, resisting. But I had to go on. I had no choice.

And it was all his fault.

My palm wrapped around the hilt, still stuck in me after all this time. I gripped so tight that its grooves and ridges might have been making permanent imprints on my skin. The next few moments felt surreal, playing out in painstakingly slow motion.

I took a deep breath. Focus. I needed to focus.

I gave myself until the count of three.

One. Two.

Three.

The scream that ripped through my throat was loud and blood-curdling, torturously sharp pain overriding my consciousness. I knew better than this. I knew better.

The knife skidded across the floor where I threw it with a metallic clinking. Still I kept crying, sobs racking my body. Through my foggy mind, I tried to forced myself to shut the hell up so that I wouldn't be found by the magitek soldiers. But I couldn't bear it. My cries rose and fell in volume as my impulses fought with instinct.

My pants were soon starting to get wet. I knew without seeing that it was from the blood that would have come rushing out of me as soon as I pulled the knife. I took up the rag again and pressed it gently on myself.

It took every ounce of my strength to stay conscious and to not make a sound. I felt ready to pass out at any second. My breathing was labored, shaking in and shaking out, with occasional grunts and moans. This was the single freedom I allowed for myself.

Time dragged. After what felt like hours, the killing pain soothed over into something fractionally more tolerable. The cloth I held against me became drenched in blood, but even after all this time I hadn't stopped bleeding. I took a minute to search through my shirts laying in a pile on the floor, feeling them to decide which was which. I discarded the dripping wet rag for whichever I thought I could do without. Then I leaned my back against the door, and when the tears came, I did not hold them back.