[they say the sense of smell is closely tied to memory, and that must be true because before her eyes are even open the scent of antiseptics fills her nostrils and slams the sensation of a big hand going cold between her two small warm ones into her mind. She's standing before she's even really conscious and her first instinct is to run.. She doesn't care why she's in the hospital, it doesn't matter because nothing good happens in hospitals and she needs to get out.
She's not sure what happens first, her knees buckling or a nurse putting a hand to her shoulder and telling her she needs to rest. And while she puts up a token resistance, the memories of way too many hospital stays comes up front and center, reminding her that she needs to pretend to be a good patient long enough for the nurses to stop paying attention to her so she can sneak out.
So she nods--regretting it when that makes her feel a little nauseous--and sinks back into the pillows, biting one as unconsciousness starts coming back and brings whispers with it of two voices, one she remembers calling her firefly and one she can't quite place calling her love, both breaking her heart and making her curl up tight as if she can become small enough to hide from the pain.
When she wakes up again, she's all soft smiles and agreement when she's told to rest, only shrugging when asked if she remembers anything. She's really worried by how little she does--besides just why hospitals make her feel so skeevy, and those blue eyes she can't pin down to a name, she remembers heartbreak and, almost paradoxically, a home filled with laughter. So much laughter, like tinkling windchimes. And then there's coffee, dark hair and the scent of incense. And she remembers driving, sort of. Which almost makes sense when she's told there was an accident, but not really.
But she lets it go, pretending to go along with it all as she watches the patterns of the nurses. Even when there are emergencies like whatever's really going on here, there's always shift changes and things like that, moments she can take advantage of. So she bides her time just long enough, waiting a whole day. She even sleeps again, although she doesn't feel sleepy until around 3am, oddly. She waits until the nurses are busy with lunch and probably meds for some people to make her escape, proud of the fact her legs are barely shaking now since these floors are just made for slipping when you don't have shoes.
There's a dim thought banging at the back of her brain as she sneaks down the hallway that someone is probably losing their mind worrying about her right now--it comes with the memory of dark hair and the smell of incense, but still no name--but right now she's more worried about finding some pants than a phone since she's freaking freezing.
She stops quickly when she sees someone in front of her and thinks about trying to hide in a doorway, not wanting to get ratted out and put back in bed. But it's kind of hard to hide when you're in a paper gown and your hair looks like a lion's mane. Or when your clumsy bare feet make you stumble just enough to not fall, but make a noticeable noise on the tile. Or when that makes you swear]
Oh, crap on toast. [it's quiet, only a bit above a whisper, but definitely loud enough for the man to hear her. And she's not sure if it's because of the fact she'd stumbled and definitely spotted, or the vague feeling that she knows this person somehow]
A
She's not sure what happens first, her knees buckling or a nurse putting a hand to her shoulder and telling her she needs to rest. And while she puts up a token resistance, the memories of way too many hospital stays comes up front and center, reminding her that she needs to pretend to be a good patient long enough for the nurses to stop paying attention to her so she can sneak out.
So she nods--regretting it when that makes her feel a little nauseous--and sinks back into the pillows, biting one as unconsciousness starts coming back and brings whispers with it of two voices, one she remembers calling her firefly and one she can't quite place calling her love, both breaking her heart and making her curl up tight as if she can become small enough to hide from the pain.
When she wakes up again, she's all soft smiles and agreement when she's told to rest, only shrugging when asked if she remembers anything. She's really worried by how little she does--besides just why hospitals make her feel so skeevy, and those blue eyes she can't pin down to a name, she remembers heartbreak and, almost paradoxically, a home filled with laughter. So much laughter, like tinkling windchimes. And then there's coffee, dark hair and the scent of incense. And she remembers driving, sort of. Which almost makes sense when she's told there was an accident, but not really.
But she lets it go, pretending to go along with it all as she watches the patterns of the nurses. Even when there are emergencies like whatever's really going on here, there's always shift changes and things like that, moments she can take advantage of. So she bides her time just long enough, waiting a whole day. She even sleeps again, although she doesn't feel sleepy until around 3am, oddly. She waits until the nurses are busy with lunch and probably meds for some people to make her escape, proud of the fact her legs are barely shaking now since these floors are just made for slipping when you don't have shoes.
There's a dim thought banging at the back of her brain as she sneaks down the hallway that someone is probably losing their mind worrying about her right now--it comes with the memory of dark hair and the smell of incense, but still no name--but right now she's more worried about finding some pants than a phone since she's freaking freezing.
She stops quickly when she sees someone in front of her and thinks about trying to hide in a doorway, not wanting to get ratted out and put back in bed. But it's kind of hard to hide when you're in a paper gown and your hair looks like a lion's mane. Or when your clumsy bare feet make you stumble just enough to not fall, but make a noticeable noise on the tile. Or when that makes you swear]
Oh, crap on toast. [it's quiet, only a bit above a whisper, but definitely loud enough for the man to hear her. And she's not sure if it's because of the fact she'd stumbled and definitely spotted, or the vague feeling that she knows this person somehow]