( She’s stumbled out of the Porter centre; filthy, covered in dirt and plaster and dust, and that’s before the gaze can drop to the wreckage of her arm. Sarissa can’t look at it, and she can’t stop looking st it. The sleeve of her shirt is wrapped over the stump and held tight in place by a leather belt. She knows, logically, that’s she in shock, but that does little to take away from the reality of what’s happened. It takes what feels like far longer than it could have been to get her device and contact Sarah.
Her voice is rough and quiet, feels like it’s crumbling away like plasterboard. It feels too quiet, but she has no idea if it really is or not, if it’s just being dulled out by her heart. )
27th; cw: traumatic injury/loss of limb
Her voice is rough and quiet, feels like it’s crumbling away like plasterboard. It feels too quiet, but she has no idea if it really is or not, if it’s just being dulled out by her heart. )
Sarah? I need—
I need help. Please.