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Viewing Single Post From: V4 Epilogue: Peace Accords
MurderWeasel
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That boy needs therapy!
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Waking up was a bitch.

Kimberly's memories of what had happened after she'd entered the medical ward were much sharper than her understanding. It didn't really matter. They'd ended up putting her under for the surgery. They'd told her that they were fixing things, that her arm was probably fucked up in all sorts of ways she hadn't even realized, that the damage could be pretty severe. They'd told her they'd try to get any bullet fragments out, but no promises. They'd told her she'd be eating through a tube for the most part for at least a couple days. They'd told her not to worry, because she definitely wasn't going to die.

Now, Kimberly was very glad that they (and who was "they"? She remembered at least three nurses and a doctor. That they had all decided to devote their lives to keeping the members of this terrorist organization in good health was a little bit disturbing) had reassured her that she wasn't in any mortal danger. Otherwise, she'd have assumed she was going to keel over at any second.

Whatever had been keeping the pain at bay enough for her to remain functional on the island and in the meeting that followed it had faded from her system. The pain she was feeling was intense, emanating primarily from her shoulder. The worst of it was that she knew she was drugged up on painkillers. She couldn't even imagine facing this without them, and that hurt in a way as well. Kimberly did not like dependencies, did not at all care for altered states of consciousness not of her own choosing. The current situation was about the worst possible time for her not to have full control of her faculties. Everything felt a little hazy, but she was aware enough to know that she was not fully aware, and that made it all the worse.

Kimberly kept expecting someone to come and interrogate her, kept thinking Greynolds would come back for another shot at tormenting her, but nothing of the sort happened. She was in a small, white, sterile room, on a comfortable bed, hooked up to an IV drip. She was wearing clothes that were not hers, some kind of pajama type shit, in horrible pastel pink. Next to the bed was a table upon which rested her fedora and the scrunchie she'd retrieved from the ground. Next to the table, on a chair, was a pile of clothes that she vaguely recognized as her own—not the clothes she'd been wearing on the island, but the clothes she'd abandoned in her personal pack back on the first day. The pack itself was next to the chair.

She looked at it all for a long, long time. Then, at some point, her fatigue overcame her pain and she drifted back to sleep.
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