![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small}
Hospital: The dead girl & [Closed]
Who: Clementine & Cotton
What: Late-night triage
Where: The Bitty Hospital
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: Probably safe
The hospital was off Central and Main, and it was as dead as the graveyard that was just beyond the squat little building. Near two in the morning, lights dimmed to nearly nothing, and wasn't even one person sitting in that waiting room. Least someone could do was slice a finger off, or maybe get themselves in some real interesting trouble with as bottle. When Clementine was interning at the ER in Atlanta, then folks came in all hours, and they came in with the weirdest damn things fussing them. Here, it was crickets and a real bitter cold beyond the double doors.
The ER doctor on duty was home, sleeping nice a few minutes away, and the night nurse was probably in the parking lot, romancing that good for nothing from the trailer park. And Clementine, she was sitting at the triage desk, bored as a sinner in church.
She wasn't dressed right for a hospital, but it wasn't something she noticed any. She was blind to a whole lot of things 'bout herself that just weren't right, and her dressing how she was, it was just one of a list of things that made sense in her head, when they rightly shouldn't make sense at all. Point was, the blonde sitting there, mid-twenties and that was being generous, was wearing a brown shirt, few buttons and a white thermal beneath. Denim, and some real sturdy hiking boots. Her coat was fur, and it was the real kind, black bear and she'd killed them with her daddy, and that fur was draped over the triage desk, discarded in the warmth of the echoing hospital.
Clementine, she just wasn't made for sitting quiet, and she'd loved the ER back in Atlanta on account of it being bustling always and not a thing like the quiet hospital back in her hometown. But here she was, bored to tears and she tapped her forehead against the desk, arms extended out in supplication to some damn God of catastrophes to come calling. This rate, she was going to end up exploring the morgue or kicking at gravestones, and all to be entertained some.
What: Late-night triage
Where: The Bitty Hospital
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: Probably safe
The hospital was off Central and Main, and it was as dead as the graveyard that was just beyond the squat little building. Near two in the morning, lights dimmed to nearly nothing, and wasn't even one person sitting in that waiting room. Least someone could do was slice a finger off, or maybe get themselves in some real interesting trouble with as bottle. When Clementine was interning at the ER in Atlanta, then folks came in all hours, and they came in with the weirdest damn things fussing them. Here, it was crickets and a real bitter cold beyond the double doors.
The ER doctor on duty was home, sleeping nice a few minutes away, and the night nurse was probably in the parking lot, romancing that good for nothing from the trailer park. And Clementine, she was sitting at the triage desk, bored as a sinner in church.
She wasn't dressed right for a hospital, but it wasn't something she noticed any. She was blind to a whole lot of things 'bout herself that just weren't right, and her dressing how she was, it was just one of a list of things that made sense in her head, when they rightly shouldn't make sense at all. Point was, the blonde sitting there, mid-twenties and that was being generous, was wearing a brown shirt, few buttons and a white thermal beneath. Denim, and some real sturdy hiking boots. Her coat was fur, and it was the real kind, black bear and she'd killed them with her daddy, and that fur was draped over the triage desk, discarded in the warmth of the echoing hospital.
Clementine, she just wasn't made for sitting quiet, and she'd loved the ER back in Atlanta on account of it being bustling always and not a thing like the quiet hospital back in her hometown. But here she was, bored to tears and she tapped her forehead against the desk, arms extended out in supplication to some damn God of catastrophes to come calling. This rate, she was going to end up exploring the morgue or kicking at gravestones, and all to be entertained some.