The Fourth Annual Writer Games: Canon

The Assault | Moire Holiday / Moira Holiday

In the greying light of midmorning, Moira wakes, full of self-acknowledgement - this is real, and I obviously can't ignore it anymore - but equally full of shame, of soreness, and of squeezing. It's tight, the band of fabric wrapped and tied around her left forearm (it's supposed to be a bandage, of sorts), and it forces her to a quick and groggy sit. Tired, but panicked at the faint tingling in her hand, she slips her fingers beneath the strip of what used to be a shirt and tugs for air, for flow, for something to let the blood burst forth and into her fingertips once again.

After untying the damned thing, she tosses it aside like someone might with an unfaithful lover - like it'd never been there, despite the red creases imprinted into sweaty skin. Then, for a good five minutes, she sits there, still and flexing her fingers until the tingling dissipates and that strange feeling of movement beneath veins and arteries comes to replace it. Even when the feeling leaves, the creases remain. She frowns, but less at the displeasure of seeing an imperfection, and more at the discomfort of seeing her arm split open, scabbed over just barely, and coated in a thick layer of flaky blood.

"Dioria really did me a good one," she mutters, but her voice is hoarse and masculine, so she quiets down halfway through. 'Til she can hardly hear herself. Instead, she trails two delicate fingers over the gash, and winces when the expected feeling of pain finally sears through it. "Shit."

For a moment, she sits there, now distracted by the many wounds lining her body, a body she'd otherwise cast off if it weren't the only one she'd ever have. There is a bruise on her cheek, gifted to her by Basil's fist. That one, that one she deserved. On the same cheek, lower, she feels scabs, old and new, a gash reopened the day before because she hadn't thought to bandage it prior. Not that she'd had any bandages to use.

Clearing her throat and scratching at the other cheek, picking at acne, she readjusts her sit, straightens. This hurts to do, and she knows why; she knows, that if she were to pull the part of her shirt up that she hadn't torn up for bandaging, that if she were to crane around and try to get a real good look at her back, she'd find the imprint of a boot, staining skin black and blue with its weight. She doesn't want to look now, though. It just hurts. And it's ugly.

Her gaze falls. She's tired without even having done anything yet. Just sat up. The little cuts and marks make her want to lay back down, but laying back down is just a big ache, so she stays where she is, unsure of getting up, unsure of staying sedentary. I just want home. I just want a bowl of oatmeal, and a hot bath, and my bed, my bed and my dirty window. And my blankets. I want to be safe again.

Even still, home is a trepidatious place, full of uncertainty and "what am I going back to if I don't die here?"

She's stuck in thought, and doesn't notice how her eyes have fallen to the two unopened packs she'd snatched from the feast. Doesn't notice until the thoughts finish and clear away like dinner plates, doesn't notice until those two spots of amber actually focus in on what they're looking at. Each pack boasts a name, but to read one makes her head fall to her knees, because, aw, damn, that was her fault, wasn't it?

She's seen Mellory's face flash across the sky. Just last night, in fact, a few mere hours ago, there she was, the sweet-looking girl with the tuft of hair atop her head, the girl who'd smiled at her, who'd reassured her, who'd saved her and tried to kill her all at once. That girl is dead now, and Moira can't help but feel it's her fault. For taking Mellory's bag. The little girl apologized, and still, Moira had taken it, trying to make some point. But what point was there when the person who wronged her was dead? None. No point to anything, aside from guilt, harboring it and snuffing it out only to relight it again. She should've left the bag be.