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“It’s not that bad… just, uh… need to sleep it off?”

Clarice gestured at the area of her shirt that was soaked in bloodstains, both old and new. Most of the shoulder of her shirt had been torn away anyway, leaving her in some sort of bizarre off-the-shoulder hobo-edition shirt. She tried to pull the t-shirt out of the way as best she could. How had she bandaged it to begin with? No, wait… Conrad had done that. She didn’t remember the details.

Antiseptic wipes…

...Had she sterilized the wound? Fuck, that would explain… god, she was a fucking idiot. Clarice looked down at her shoulder, tugging what she could of the torn shirt away so that she could see it. Underneath the bandages—in themselves rather loose after her last attempt at changing them—the wound was not only bleeding again, but it was a raw, irritated red that didn’t look like it was healing well.

Well, shit. She’d just have to hope she would last long enough for potential rescue.

She looked away from the wound and stared around the room. At the shelves and shelves of old books. Anything to look away from whatever her shoulder was doing.
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Death Is The Only Freedom... · The Library