InsaneJournal

Who: Boyd
What: A narrative
Where: 1007 to start
When: Today
Warnings: Mentions of infection (ick!)


She'd had friends of Mikey's clear the furniture out of 601, and the only thing she'd kept for herself was the closet bed, which she'd replaced her own with. It was a Full, and smaller than the Queen she was accustomed to, but she liked the dark privacy it provided.

She'd gotten Rosalie's voicemail before leaving Shane's, and she'd gone to see if she was home after, but there hadn't been anyone there. Boyd knew what that meant - it meant that she'd stayed with Daniel. Daniel had wanted her to leave, had yelled at her and forced her to go, but he'd let Rosalie stay.

The morning she was meant to meet Shane for breakfast, she could barely get out of bed. Her hand was throbbing, and her skin was hot, and she was freezing with cold.

She sat on the bed, and she unwrapped her hand slowly, wincing as the bandages came free. Her hand was swollen, and the claw marks were an angry purple-red against the painfully stretched skin, and they were black and white tipped around the edges, the smell sick-sweet under the bandage. Even with that, it was obvious what they were- claw marks. They couldn't be mistaken for anything else, at least to her mind, so that made getting help a challenge. Whatever she did, she thought, would implicate Shane.

She sat there, and she tried to think through the pain and exhaustion. She couldn't pretend to Jane Doe herself into a hospital, because being in the foster system meant her fingerprints were on file in the national database, and she looked young enough that they would insist on checking to see if she was a runaway.

Her psychiatrist was an option. He might believe she'd done it to herself.

She stood unsteadily, and she walked to the mirror. She pulled off the shirt she'd worn to bed, and she looked. Her shoulders were the worst, covered in barely healed claw-marks and teeth impressions. One particularly bad bite under her breast had left a significant scar behind since she hadn't gotten stitches for it, even though she should have. The bruises were mostly yellow faded now, though, and they'd be gone completely in a few days at the most.

She swayed unsteadily on her feet, fingers of her good hand gripping the dresser for support.

In the end, she managed to get dressed and make her way downstairs and out of the building. She gave the cab driver directions to a charity hospital, one she knew because she'd stumbled on it when she'd first moved to New York. It was small, underfunded and far away from the Family, and not on the radar of anything whatsoever. It was safe.

She gave a fake name when she got there (she didn't remember what), and when they asked, she told them she'd been clawed by a dog. They had her in a flimsy gown and on an IV within minutes, and she couldn't see their concerned and disbelieving faces, because she was already curled up on the hospital bed, asleep.