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by Chiara's arm was literally red with blood.
She was storming towards the infirmary, holding it up with a hand and trying her best not to cry in pain. She hadn't cried because of physical pain for years, but this was her third open fracture and when the last two had occurred (she had been eleven at the time) she had cried her eyeballs out.
It wasn't that much the pain, it was more the sight. The part of her arm between the wrist and elbow was bent to an unnatural angle, and just there, a piece of bone was poking out of her skin, tearing through veins and muscles and other bodily tissues. The hand she was supporting her arm with was already sticky and slippery with blood and she was screwing her face up in pain as she walked towards the infirmary, dressed in training gear: lightly loose black cargo pants and nylon tee, her remaining throwing knife at her belt. She didn't know what had happened to the other two, Clarisse probably still had them. She looked back at her injury.
It had happened during a particularly violent sparring match against a Hephaestus kid who had literally slammed her against the weapon lockers after she had kicked him in the stomach with her metal-tipped combat boots. Once he had realized the impact had broken her arm though, he had insisted on bringing her to the infirmary but she had just pushed him away with her other arm and gone there herself. She didn't need any escort, she wasn't that weak. And especially not from the guy who had done it.
A couple of minutes later, some droplets of blood falling on the grass, she reached the white marble building. Contrary to the mortal hospitals and clinics she knew, there was no acrid smell of medics or disinfectant inside, just the fragrance of freshly washed cloth, lavender and godly food. It was kind of appeasing.
Chiara walked in between the columns, trying to keep the blood from running down her arm onto the clean floor and was led to a bed by an Athena guy who told her to wait here while he called someone to take care of her. So the short daughter of Ares sat on the bed and put her bleeding arm on a pile of clean cotton cloths, hissing in pain. The bone looked a bit yellow and -- was that marrow?
If she hadn't already had several of these the sight would've churned her stomach, but nine years of hanging out at a survival camp for demigods had steeled her guts and it was no problem for her to look at the gruesome wound, applying a piece of cloth on it to try and stop the bleeding while whoever was supposed to heal her took their precious time.
She was storming towards the infirmary, holding it up with a hand and trying her best not to cry in pain. She hadn't cried because of physical pain for years, but this was her third open fracture and when the last two had occurred (she had been eleven at the time) she had cried her eyeballs out.
It wasn't that much the pain, it was more the sight. The part of her arm between the wrist and elbow was bent to an unnatural angle, and just there, a piece of bone was poking out of her skin, tearing through veins and muscles and other bodily tissues. The hand she was supporting her arm with was already sticky and slippery with blood and she was screwing her face up in pain as she walked towards the infirmary, dressed in training gear: lightly loose black cargo pants and nylon tee, her remaining throwing knife at her belt. She didn't know what had happened to the other two, Clarisse probably still had them. She looked back at her injury.
It had happened during a particularly violent sparring match against a Hephaestus kid who had literally slammed her against the weapon lockers after she had kicked him in the stomach with her metal-tipped combat boots. Once he had realized the impact had broken her arm though, he had insisted on bringing her to the infirmary but she had just pushed him away with her other arm and gone there herself. She didn't need any escort, she wasn't that weak. And especially not from the guy who had done it.
A couple of minutes later, some droplets of blood falling on the grass, she reached the white marble building. Contrary to the mortal hospitals and clinics she knew, there was no acrid smell of medics or disinfectant inside, just the fragrance of freshly washed cloth, lavender and godly food. It was kind of appeasing.
Chiara walked in between the columns, trying to keep the blood from running down her arm onto the clean floor and was led to a bed by an Athena guy who told her to wait here while he called someone to take care of her. So the short daughter of Ares sat on the bed and put her bleeding arm on a pile of clean cotton cloths, hissing in pain. The bone looked a bit yellow and -- was that marrow?
If she hadn't already had several of these the sight would've churned her stomach, but nine years of hanging out at a survival camp for demigods had steeled her guts and it was no problem for her to look at the gruesome wound, applying a piece of cloth on it to try and stop the bleeding while whoever was supposed to heal her took their precious time.
Last edited by Morgan Landry on 10/26/2014, 11:01 am; edited 2 times in total
