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Entry tags:
they're picking up pieces of me
Who: Charles, Erik, Ned
What: Ned is the newest stray that Charles decides to take in, after the Hulk tenderizes him with a park bench.
When: Day 50 (after this & this)
Where: Inside the library, House 8
Warning: Non-life threatening injuries, mentions of bullying
Ned isn't thinking very clearly, just at the moment. Probably that concussion of his, playing tricks with his memory and senses. He's forgotten all about the Hulk, and Cape Kore, and all of it. He doesn't know where he is, or how he got there, or why every inch of him hurts as if he's been run over by a truck. Wherever he is, it's quiet - at least it would be if there weren't that horrible, ceaseless ringing in his ears - and shaded. He has the vague sense that he was somewhere bright and loud, before, and that it made his head hurt even worse than it does now.
Huddled in the corner of a back hallway, he doesn't see or hear any other people. He doesn't think to seek them out, to tell anyone that he is injured. This is what he does, what he's always done. At school, when the other boys were particularly unhappy with him, it wasn't the school nurse he would run to, but an empty classroom, or a supply closet: anywhere he could hide until he was ready to clean himself up and act like nothing had happened.
Should he be cleaning himself up, now, he wonders? He wipes a hand clumsily across his mouth, and his fingers come away bloody. Not much: just a cut lip, then. Nothing he can't excuse away. He should get up and find a mirror, check if there are any visible bruises. The only problem is he's so tired, and it hurts to breathe too deeply. He'll do it in a moment, he tells himself. Much better to just sit here and rest for a little while.
What: Ned is the newest stray that Charles decides to take in, after the Hulk tenderizes him with a park bench.
When: Day 50 (after this & this)
Where: Inside the library, House 8
Warning: Non-life threatening injuries, mentions of bullying
Ned isn't thinking very clearly, just at the moment. Probably that concussion of his, playing tricks with his memory and senses. He's forgotten all about the Hulk, and Cape Kore, and all of it. He doesn't know where he is, or how he got there, or why every inch of him hurts as if he's been run over by a truck. Wherever he is, it's quiet - at least it would be if there weren't that horrible, ceaseless ringing in his ears - and shaded. He has the vague sense that he was somewhere bright and loud, before, and that it made his head hurt even worse than it does now.
Huddled in the corner of a back hallway, he doesn't see or hear any other people. He doesn't think to seek them out, to tell anyone that he is injured. This is what he does, what he's always done. At school, when the other boys were particularly unhappy with him, it wasn't the school nurse he would run to, but an empty classroom, or a supply closet: anywhere he could hide until he was ready to clean himself up and act like nothing had happened.
Should he be cleaning himself up, now, he wonders? He wipes a hand clumsily across his mouth, and his fingers come away bloody. Not much: just a cut lip, then. Nothing he can't excuse away. He should get up and find a mirror, check if there are any visible bruises. The only problem is he's so tired, and it hurts to breathe too deeply. He'll do it in a moment, he tells himself. Much better to just sit here and rest for a little while.