[End]
When they came to move her, she intended to go without arguing, lost in the fucking feeling of not giving a shit.
She sat on the hospital bed, the hospital robe falling off one shoulder, and she wondered that she'd ever thought she didn't care about shit. Because she didn't feel like that memory, didn't feel like the guy in that bed with the woman, and she didn't fucking want to. So there was that, and she wasn't even sure she could fucking be that person anymore.
She yanked her arm away from the orderly without thinking, a reaction to the drugs beginning to wane, and to the fact that a guy was touching her. He sounded the alarm, and as they pinned her down on the bed (when the fuck did she become dangerous?) she thought of the dead woman on the ground, the blood between the woman's legs, and she saw her own face on that body.