Re: [Dahlia's trailer.]
[The anger still lurked in her, as it always did. It was never far. It was probably what made Dahlia glare sullenly at the offered hand, before she looked away and stubbornly set about standing up by herself. All on her own. She'd do it her fucking self, because for now, she was tired of help.
Problem with hubris: it was not sympathetic to her plight, nor how indiscriminately numb her legs felt right now. There wasn't anything else in the washroom for her to grab onto, so she leaned bodily against the wall and just wormed her way upward, hands pawing limply at the tile. The comforter fell to a pile at her ankles, revealing a stained wifebeater and plain black underwear and all the ink, the sharp blacks and bloody reds that swirled across most everything between her neck and her knees. The muscle stood out on her pale, tattooed thighs from the exceedingly unnecessary effort.
But one bare foot skidded slightly across the soap-scummed tile and, growling, she caught herself on Wren's wrist. Without a word, she finished pulling herself up with help, after all.
Still relying on the lean-to walls for support, Dahlia pushed past Wren in the cramped little washroom, shuffling slowly without lifting her feet off the ground. The bed was right outside, though. After about two more steps, she sort of just fell into it, narrowly avoiding the clanking bottles still stuck in the sheets, and pulled her legs in slowly, one by one. It was still cold and she missed her warm comforter but oh, god, bed felt amazing, otherwise.
Despite the chill and the overheads still blaring light, sleep circled in like a vulture for Dahlia. And the tiny other woman standing in her trailer was forgotten, for now.]