Used to be a sweet girl...

[Chib†]

[Dead-End Scenario --> Ema Ryan]

Time was no longer any object to that young girl, fleeing on one good leg from the scene of a slaughter. A slaughter of her own making, that she was by now quite sure she'd be lucky to be the sole survivor of. No. Staggering back down that cliffside trail, back towards the perceived safety of the small town, Ema had plenty of other things than time to concern herself with. She had to keep a stable footing, despite agonising jolts of pain running the length of her left leg with every other step, she had to stay upright in spite of the gradual but ceaseless draining of blood from both of her gruesome wounds, she had to keep going.

She had to keep going.

There was no looking back, for fear that Raidon may be following her yet. There was scarcely the opportunity to look forward, with her face covered by blood, stray hair and clutching hands. So long as she was headed south, that was enough. She just had to find somewhere safer, stop the bleeding, and hope to whatever there was left to put faith in that she wasn't too late. Ema had read about shock somewhere before, symptoms of the gradual loss of blood. Her extremities weren't feeling cold yet, and she didn't feel unusually thirsty. That was a good sign. It'd have to be enough.

Unsurprisingly, the Irish girl had no idea how far she'd come when she eventually realised she could go no further. Looking up, past the haze that was her vision, past the red blur of blood, her own blood, she could see houses not far in the distance. She was on a footpath, leading into the town. But she couldn't carry on. When had she landed on her knees? She didn't know. Except that's not where she was, no, she was flat on her front now, dribbling blood past the makeshift seal of her hand, onto the ground below.

Time passed. Ema rolled onto her back, pawed ineffectually at her daypack for several seconds. Maybe it was several minutes. The moon wasn't as good a way to judge time as the sun. Ema didn't even look at the moon. Why would she? She was opening a first aid kit. When did that become a thing, wasn't she flailing uselessly at the zip? No complaints, though.

Lapsing in and out of lucidity, her arms moving almost automatically, the girl cleaned the crimson mess from her face with a cotton bud and a dab of water. She tentatively went over the wound a second time with alcohol. Placed a square of gauze over the ruin that was once her eye. Wrapped a long bandage right the way around her head. It was all she knew how to do. It probably wasn't even right. Rinse and repeat for the shin, both sides. By now, she was too numb to feel any sting when the rubbing alcohol pressed into the open wound. Except she wasn't, it was agonising, she screamed into the night sky, venting her lungs until she was hoarse. And then she was again, comfortably numbed against all the effects of being shot and cut and bleeding slowly from where that'd been.

At some point, she'd ended up with a bandage wrapped around her head, and her shin, too. When had that happened? Why was shy laying on her back in a ditch, and what had happened to all the blood on her face? Why was her throat so dry? She needed a drink. Needed water. Ema crawled back to her bag, liberated a bottle, it was already open for some reason, spilled across the ground before she got it to her lips. But the sweet, sweet nectar was worth the effort. Water had never tasted so good.

Ema tossed and turned, rolling irritably on the ground, trying to get comfortable. She was already unconscious. But then she was awake, staring up at the stars. It was hard to stay conscious with so much fatigue in her body. It was hard to sleep through all the pain.

Somewhere in the stillness of the night, that young girl couldn't keep functioning. Her brain turned off for the time being, and left her body alone to rest and recover as best it could.

Tomorrow was going to be another day.

It wouldn't be any easier.

But against all odds, Ema Ryan was still alive.

[Ema Ryan --> We Can Live with the Sadness]