[hr][center] [img]http://txt-dynamic.cdn.1001fonts.net/txt/b3RmLjcyLmJmYzRjNS5VbWwwWVNCV2IzSnZibUUsLjA,/divat.regular.png[/img] [code]Hospital[/code] [sub] [@Fernstone][/sub] [/center] [hr] Rita bolted upright as she gasped for air; her hand clutched against her chest while her heart threatened to hammer right through her ribcage. Sweat was formed on her brow, and her eyes darted around in a panic as a rapid beeping rang in her ears. Her breathing became more regular as she realized that she was no longer outside of the old, decrepit school but inside a hospital ward. The beeping came from the heart monitor standing next to her bed, and it too slowed with her realization. She scooted her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around them: had it all been a dream? A hallucination? She must’ve gotten in a accident while riding her bike. There had been no friendship with Martin, no tension with Claire, absolutely zero mass murders, and an utter impossibility that… Her eyes lingered on the sigil that ran from her fingers like the severed strings of a marionette. A choked sob escaped from her throat. It had all been real. The Abstractions, the Watchers, the Glutton, even the dreams she had when she was out were just visions of the past, as vivid as they would be if she had been there herself and written them down in her diary. She sat there for what must’ve been several minutes and silently cried as she tried and figured out why she had dreamed of her father before the vision of the Watchers. She had been transported back to Corpus Christi, Texas. More accurately, she had been transported back in time to the last time she was in that garbage town that smelled like a dirty pier and cowboy boots that had trudged through horseshit. She was inside of a chain family restaurant, in a booth, surrounded by tchotchkes and flair, across from her father. Much like the rest of the folks in that town, her father was dressed in plaid tucked into a pair of levi’s over some flashy boots so that he looked like a real cowboy despite being a Yank. Just another convenient little lie—it was better to pretend that he was a true good ol’ boy than not for the sake of his work—from a man who was about to reveal to his daughter that his, and therefore her, entire life was a fabrication. It didn’t hurt so much that she was told that she wasn’t wanted. She knew that. She just wished he hadn’t pretended for so long that she was. Rita, now that her mind rejoined her body, wiped away the tears. There was plenty of time in the world to be miserable, but first she had to figure out what was going on. For starters, how had she gone from some certain death situation to a hospital bed? She buzzed for the nurse once, twice, three times, and then waited, and waited, and waited. It became clear to her that a nurse was not coming, and perhaps that voice she had heard in her sleep hadn’t been part of the dream but an actual warning, and perhaps that meant it was time to get moving. Rita closed her eyes as she removed the IV, and then slid over to the side of the bed. She winced as her bare feet touched the cold floor and her knees wobbled but held as she stood up, her hand gripped white against the bed rail for support. For someone who did not like to even show knee, it was almost a subconscious decision to take the sheet from the bed and drape it over her gown for some decency. Now as ready as she could possibly be, the girl went over to the curtain and peeked through it. The coast seemed clear enough: she stepped out of the threshold and into the ward. Hospitals always gave her the creeps, and the dim lighting and, excluding the occasional beep of a machine, silent ward did nothing to change her opinion. She tiptoed past several closed-off beds before a scream shot through the air and robbed her of her ability to walk as her heart went into overdrive. Immediately after, she her something rip against the curtains before she saw Tuyen emerge and then collapse against a wall. Rita did not hurry over to the girl right away. After all, while they had been cordial to each other they were not really close; just two unlucky quiet girls who happened to be in the same shitty situation. It wasn’t until Rita recognized the symptoms of a panic attack—an experience she was all too familiar with—that she approached the girl. “Tuyen, it’s Rita,” she said, her voice barely above a squeak as she walked around Tuyen so that she could see her. She reached out to put a hand on Tuyen’s shoulder. “It’s...it’s going to be okay.” Her voice shook; Rita obviously didn’t believe that. “I’m here for you. Try and steady your breathing, okay? I know it’s difficult, but you can do it.”