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SHE LEFT BEHIND a trail of crimson blood, dripping from her very fingertips, but she refused to allow herself to think anything of it. Work, work, work – that was the only priority. Each and every one of her thoughts latched onto that simple objective: find things to treat Carson.
Her hands were almost as battered as his own, from a night spent clenching her fists with so much force, tighter and tighter; some kind of unconscious form of self-condemnation – until her skin broke. It tore like a mere sheet of paper, like that skin wasn't her armor, protecting what lied within. Skin ablaze, she awoke before the sun did and quietly gave herself a sleepy mission to find something to aid her only companion.
Blood stained everything she stuffed into an abandoned suitcase, but she'd lost sight of the mindset that would've been concerned about such a silly thing. What she believed mattered was that she had found more than she could've imagined: bandages, prescription medicine, clean socks- everything she thought would prove useful at some point found its way into the dark suitcase.
Nonchalantly, she strolled back into their shared hotel room; one hand covered her mouth, stretched open in a restless yawn, and the other dragging the suitcase behind her. As soon as she closed the door, trying to be as quiet as possible, Carson almost rushed into view. "There you are," he said, the first time he'd bothered to speak to her since the bus. "From now on, you should let me know when you leave."
She hummed a wordless response and let the suitcase fall to the ground, dragging her feet over to the couch she spent that bloody night on. "I messed up my hand," she spoke up after a few moments of silence, an almost childlike tone to her voice as she raised her bloody palm for him to see. "We're like twins now," she dryly added in some attempt to lighten the mood, a small smile struggling to survive on her lips.
He merely stared, and she let out a heavy sigh. "Stuff for your hand's in the suitcase," Adelaide continued, tiredly staring ahead. "I doubt you'll let me do it, so... I think I'm going to try to go back to sleep. Basically, just disinfect everything before you put band-aids on it. There's no other way you can fuck it up–"
The couch sinking down beneath his weight stopped her. She raised her head to attention, blinking a few times to wake herself up more as she slowly turned to look at him. He grabbed one of her hands firmly, pulling it towards the roll of bandages and bottle of disinfectant lying in his lap.
Though her thoughts raced, she dared not speak. There was always a chance she'd scare him away from his own good side.
"You need to get more sleep," he spoke up after minutes of silence. He'd gotten too caught up in tending to her self-inflicted wounds, and she simply didn't want to break the silence. She grew tired of it- always making the effort first. Or maybe it was just a post-nightmare headspace, she didn't know. She was too tired to think much of it. "Stop working yourself so hard. It's gonna get you killed. I would've gone with you if you'd told me you were leaving."
