The Odyssey || 𝗕𝗿𝘂𝗰𝗲 𝗪𝗮𝘆𝗻𝗲

Thirteen | Wounded

The light underneath the door is red. And not a cherry red you would expect, not bright and vibrant light the blood you see on television, no. It's dark. Nearly black, but the soft white ceiling light reveals an eerie crimson color.

You don't realize what it is until it creeps from beneath the gap onto the beige carpet and you freeze completely. It behaves like an insect; it moves slowly, fluid and wavering. It makes no sound.

You stare at it and a million little things run through your head, a mile a minute it seems.

The scene cuts to when the tile on the floor is wet and hot, bleary and confusing your brain with wisps of that ugly red circling about.

And you're holding her. Your socks are soaked and you're shaking timidly, but it isn't because you're wet or cold. You're shivering because her face is pale and bleak and twisted in such an expression of sorrow that your heart breaks.

You tell her to wake up twice, maybe three times, before you realize that the incisions along both your mother's wrists—imprecise and not done with her surgeons hand—had bled out all that you loved about her.

You're shaking because when you were ten years old, you were angry at her for doing this. Leaving you.

You sat there on the cold, wet floor, holding your dead mother and sobbing, wondering why like everyone else before, she had left you alone.

Elizabeth woke up with an exuberant headache, pain shooting up her neck like lightning. Her joints locked up and her fingernails clenched into her palm, nearly piercing into her skin with the amount of force she was using. Her eyes were wide, pupils constricted as she struggled to breathe properly. She tried to speak, say anything, but she couldn't.

All she heard was muffling for a moment before she told herself to focus on the sound of Mercedes' calming Spanish and the feeling of soothing hands on her arms, trying to stop her shaking.

Her vision finally focused on the pale blue ceiling and the air in her lungs was unrestricted. Her body relaxed and she let in a sort of gasp, lashes fluttering.

"Señorita Jefferson?" She leaned over and Elizabeth groaned gently. "I'm fine." She muttered near drowsily as she felt the pain near the back of her neck.

It was a frequent type of paralysis she experienced when she had certain dreams. Emotional reactions made her body hurt to the point where she couldn't control it when she woke up. She was well past afraid—her little night terrors were annoying.

"Fue el mismo sueño?" Mercedes inquired soothingly as she sat on the edge of the bed while Liz sat up with strain. "It's always the same dream, Mercedes." She muttered and stood out of bed begrudgingly, completely disregarding the tray that sat on her bedside table, graced with medication and breakfast. Typical.

"Señorita," Her ever so trusty caretaker followed after her as she ventured into the bathroom, worry strewn about her features. "You must eat something." She was adamant this time about addressing her boss' self-malnourishment.

"I will, Mercedes." Elizabeth spoke absentmindedly, throwing her oversized Harvard shirt into the hamper behind her.

She wasn't focused on her health. It was an important day. Important enough to make her a bit nauseous. She was absolutely dreading today. She had to face a very adamant demon that plagued her incessantly. It was time he be corrected. She couldn't avoid it any longer.

Don't let him manipulate you. She leaned forward and stared at herself in the mirror. She took care (of her appearance) this morning. She slicked her hair back and dabbed blush on her cheeks so she didn't look quite as pale, a suggestion from Mercedes who at least wished her well on today's voyage.