[Narrative] Who: Sam What: Narrative: Home Where: Fast and the Furious → Ocean's Eleven When: Mid-this Warnings/Rating: Language
The girl in the hospital bed woke to the sound of raised voices, male, yeah? Things from dreams, nightmares, whatever. As familiar as her own voice in the morning, groggy and when she talked to the dog. Before meds, before coffee, before eyes cracked completely open and not yet devoid of sleep. That was how well she knew those fucking voices, and she didn't need to think or anything to figure out who the fuck was yelling.
Figuring out where she was, that took a few minutes longer. Benzos and anti-hallucinogens and shit to keep her wrapped in mental cotton, and she'd swung at the paramedics before she started seizing out there, in that fucking alley, some guy with face tats standing over her and his hand on his belt buckle. Yeah, she'd lost her shit; she remembered that. Shaking, trembling, her phone in fucking pieces, and she remembered.
Hospital, and the room was austere white, medicinal, and her head felt like bricks, weighted and heavy, and she was tired. So fucking tired, but something cracked beyond her door, deluge and she thought she saw water beneath the sliver of light that the door couldn't obscure.
Yeah, ok, get the fuck up.
And she did. There was no guard posted, and she wasn't being held as responsible for anything. Not like some sick and small girl could torch a block, kill all those guys, yeah? She worried about MK, and that worry might have stuck, but the voices filtered in again, and all she wanted was to cover her fucking ears and scream.
But she didn't do that.
She unplugged the machine she was hooked up to, so she wouldn't beep or whatever. Battery backup, yeah? But she yanked that too, and the IV went next. She was in hospital whites, a robe with diamonds in a cheery teal, but she didn't pay any attention to that shit. She felt like death, and she knew she probably looked like dying, and she didn't need to peek at the chart at her door to figure out what the fuck happened with her. She could feel it, the heavy head-weight of dying brain cells, and she padded quiet past the empty nurses' station, too many fucking patients and she wasn't a fall risk, so it didn't fucking matter.
The waiting room was there, and the girl with the arm that bled from the yank of her own IV, she stood quiet, out of fucking sight, and she listened for a few minutes.
She didn't need to hear all of it, yeah? She heard enough, and she went back to her room, wrote a note that said she was going home, and she didn't want anyone to fucking follow her. Her handwriting was a shaky mess, but it was legible, and she found a door out into the hotel with slow, unsteady steps.
Simple, yeah? And she did that, home, but Lou's stuff was still in the boathouse, and there were signs a kid had been there, and she didn't stay. She grabbed a tent, grabbed the dog, grabbed some money and her meds. Clothes shoved in a bag, and she got help setting up at the campsite. It would do, yeah? As the words from that waiting room rang through her fucking head, it would fucking do.