Lucien
The ink is black. The letters were meticulously carved into the reddened flesh in thick and bold cursives. It covered her pulse, making it hard to watch if it sped up or slowed as she lied to me.
She is thin. Too thin. Her hair is thinning. Lack of nutrients. She hasn't been eating enough.
We will fix that.
Blood stains the bandages around her left hand. It hasn't stopped bleeding. The slash across her cheek has been sewn shut in jagged stitches. The amount of silver inside her--not to speak of the collar--must be enough to have put a stop to her metabolism. It is any wonder she is still breathing at all.
The under of her eyes are bruised with purple, her gaze hollowed out. It looks like fatigue. But most don't know that there is a reason Silver is called poison. A reason why the first treatment administered to someone who had even a bit of it in their system is to flush it out.
Because eventually, it takes root.
