[the feeling of being unwell is a familiarity. before Mayfield had given her a second chance at life, it had been a steadiness -- a part of the routine until she had, unfortunately, been unable to hold out for the one thing she had wanted more than anything in the world.
sad... it's sad, that despite knowing that he never came for her at home, Hohenheim is the first thing on her mind as her heavy eyelids crack, here. the dilapidated ceiling that greets her is unfamiliar and she's dazed, groggy and disoriented... pain thankfully dulled behind the drugs that are still wearing themselves out of her system. she'll have a few hours left of grateful relief before she needs to feel... well, much of anything at all. maybe it was a little bit of mercy on behalf of the terrible people who had done this she hadn't wronged at all.
she had never been an upstart. she had never defied them or tried to speak out against them... she had not even lived a life that one might pick her out from one of the drone wives going about their daily lives, really -- caring for her children and husband and her home and smiling at her neighbors. Trisha never made waves.
in the end, it made no difference. despite that, now... she's...
...she had no idea the irony of her situation -- that she now seemed to resemble the thing her sons had created in an attempt to resurrect her from the dead after she had passed on at home. she was not so monstrous as the body without a soul -- not a bloodied mass of twisted flesh with a gaping maw and inhuman eyes... but maybe that made it worse. it was Trisha.
but twisted.
they had bent her limbs backwards in surgery, twisted them, broken fingers and toes -- she's been warped and for what reason? to what ends? what good would any of this do them... but these are thoughts for another time. for now... she has a soft furrow of confusion at her brow, and she can't seem to move, limbs heavy and aching under the fuzziness of sedation. her voice is small, for anyone who hears it. is anyone there...?
/quietly screams in this post... sldkgjsdf
sad... it's sad, that despite knowing that he never came for her at home, Hohenheim is the first thing on her mind as her heavy eyelids crack, here. the dilapidated ceiling that greets her is unfamiliar and she's dazed, groggy and disoriented... pain thankfully dulled behind the drugs that are still wearing themselves out of her system. she'll have a few hours left of grateful relief before she needs to feel... well, much of anything at all. maybe it was a little bit of mercy on behalf of the terrible people who had done this she hadn't wronged at all.
she had never been an upstart. she had never defied them or tried to speak out against them... she had not even lived a life that one might pick her out from one of the drone wives going about their daily lives, really -- caring for her children and husband and her home and smiling at her neighbors. Trisha never made waves.
in the end, it made no difference. despite that, now... she's...
...she had no idea the irony of her situation -- that she now seemed to resemble the thing her sons had created in an attempt to resurrect her from the dead after she had passed on at home. she was not so monstrous as the body without a soul -- not a bloodied mass of twisted flesh with a gaping maw and inhuman eyes... but maybe that made it worse. it was Trisha.
but twisted.
they had bent her limbs backwards in surgery, twisted them, broken fingers and toes -- she's been warped and for what reason? to what ends? what good would any of this do them... but these are thoughts for another time. for now... she has a soft furrow of confusion at her brow, and she can't seem to move, limbs heavy and aching under the fuzziness of sedation. her voice is small, for anyone who hears it. is anyone there...?
is she alone?]
...Ed...?