Sativa.

22. Lacerate pt 2

First there was chaos, with lab coats trailing like white ghosts behind bodies, and murmured shouts as Doctors and nurses alike crowded Travis's room. Blaine remembers that phase in freeze frames like a fucked up DVD skipping over scratches damaging the data.

Now Blaine sits alone with a hard plastic chair digging into the small of her back. They have special waiting rooms for each floor. She's put on the fourth floor. The place where loved ones with patients in surgery are stored. She's holed up in a sterile room listening to music from her phone that's far too upbeat for her current situation. It's all surreal.

There isn't anyone around to console her. She'd take even Serenity's company at this point but didn't have her number to call. All she's left with is the electronic whirring of a soda machine in the corner.

She's wiped her hands raw with napkins she took from the bathroom on the first floor. Blood clings to her fingers like a new layer of skin, cherry red and an agonizing reminder of what happened. Maybe she should be feel more but she's practically numb to the events now that she can't do anything about them.

Blaine is so immersed in her thoughts she doesn't hear someone come into the room with her. She's aware of a presence only because she can see a pair of scuffed combat boots stopped in front of her. Sitting up from a slouch, she gets a better look at the person. An unfamiliar man.

Basically he's an average joe wth a buzz cut wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and a reasonably grey wind breaker. Something about his face throws it off though, giving her another vibe entirely. People who've experienced a lot in their lifetime have a different look about them -- their eyes are dimmer, their faces worn into a constant neutral expression.

"I'm Detective Laur." He introduces himself curtly. "I know Doctors are sent in for this but I've been waiting to talk to you."

"Aren't you supposed to show me a badge or something?"

He nudges back his jacket slightly to revel a shiny gold star clipped to his belt. A million possibilities rocket through Blaine's mind and she can practically feel her blood thickening as a new type of fear settles in.

"Do I have a choice?"

Surprisingly, his smile seems genuine. Sitting down to her right he replies, "Not really. You do have the right to remain silent but that implies you did something wrong which isn't the case."

Restless, she starts to tear at the napkins balled up in her red fists. "Is Travis ok?"

Laur nods. "They're bringing him out of surgery. They're going to work on him regaining the use of both his hands. I don't know the details, the surgeon should be here shortly."

Blaine clears her throat, she's uncomfortable and her skin is starting to feel sticky again. "Even the hand that fell off?"

The question is blunter then she intended but Officer Laur hardly bats an eye. "He stuffed his own fingers in his jacket pocket. Can you believe that?" Taking note of the horror such grisly information incites he adds quickly, "Sorry. Probably more information than you needed to know. Like I said, I'm not a Doctor."

At least Travis is alive but she isn't sure what to say to the stranger. A long silence settles between them until he opens a plastic bag with a noisy crinkling. "Frito," he offers.

"Do I look hungry to you?" Blaine scoffs.

"Never hurts to ask."

The crunching of the chips in his teeth gets annoying, fast. She suddenly longs for solitude again.

"Look." Officer Laur shifts in his chair, the flimsy plastic groans beneath his weight. "I know this is bad timing but I need to ask this while the window is still open."

It's clear he's only now talking about what he came here for. But he has the courtesy of waiting for her reaction before diving in. "Ok." Is the only agreement Blaine can supply through a fog of uncertainty.

"Those marks on your man's hands. I've seen them before."

"You have?"

The officer nods, appearing almost somber. "I work narcotics in the city and was assigned here for the rise in gang activity."

Although this information raises red flags she's comforted in knowing he probably wouldn't be so upfront if they were suspects. "This town has been a problem child for awhile now," she admits.

He folds the chips closed before tucking the bag in his jacket pocket. "For your protection I won't disclose the name of the gang but guys usually get marked up like that when they cross another member."

Initial reaction is anger, an emotion that warms her up through all this bitter cold, but Blaine's too exhausted to yell. "Travis isn't part of a gang."

"He doesn't have to be a member to get cut," he states gradually turning sterner. "I've been investigating for months and, far as I'm concerned, Travis is clean as a whistle but I still need to know why. Here's my card."

Confusion renders her unable to refuse, so she takes the small card from him with her red fingers.

"I'll be in touch. But if you need anything, call."

This whole miserable day has been whiplash. Consequently, Blaine stares at the letters and numbers unable to read them. As if she's lost the ability to function normally.

Apparently sympathizing with her evident surprise, he continues to speak for her. "I'll walk you to the elevator so you can wait in the room for Travis."

A little bit of good news manages to jar Blaine from a blank stupor. "Thank you."

To her relief Officer Laur isn't pushy. During the time they walk side by side down the hall he has the decency not to question her further. The elevator rattles open with a lilting ding that's too cheery for the otherwise dark atmosphere.

Once he escorts her back to the first floor room he wishes her well and asks her to call him for a second, clarifying time. He's gone before Blaine can remember how to talk.

Everything is too much to absorb; from Clark, to Travis's mangled hands, to the unsettling interview with the officer. It's like a secret switch has flicked in her brain, turning it off entirely.

Blaine's legs are about to give out so she sinks onto the bed before gravity can take over. Since she left someone has changed the sheets and scrubbed the walls clean making everything sterile and new again. All that's left is Travis's marred clothes in a heap on the floor.

She bends over to pick up the pile on autopilot. Despite the crimson river spilled from his hands his jeans are merely spotted. Stains that will probably never wash out but the pants are almost wearable. After folding them neatly she sets his jeans to the side.

His shirt is ruined. She's unable to tell what color it was originally supposed to be and the doctors did a good job hacking it up to get it off him. Blaine folds it anyway.

The last piece of clothing is a thick camouflage jacket she distinctly remembers buying Travis for Christmas. A jacket shouldn't be a trigger but seeing it somehow activates that secret switch in her brain, reverting her back to an on setting. Clutching Travis's jacket against her chest, Blaine squeezes her eyes shut and tries to keep composure.

It's impossible to choke back tears now. She's sobbing so heavily she can't make a sound. No one would know she was even crying if her shoulders weren't heaving as she sucks in deep gulps of air. Consumed by grief she rocks back and forth, wailing soundlessly up at the ceiling as her whole word quakes into senseless rubble.