You just straight-up lose your first three days back. You vaguely remember getting out of the prison alive, and collapsing into a boat, which, where'd the boat come from? Next thing you know you're opening your eyes as if you'd woken up from a brief and refreshing nap at your school desk, except that all the pain you'd been ignoring earlier is real present; your mouth hurts, your side hurts, your ankles hurt from kicking in that window, your wrist hurts...
It is said, daughter of empire, that I am the least human and most removed of the gods. Permit me to demonstrate this to be incorrect: you hurt your wrists using your stingers as knives when I gave you perfectly good venom.
"Ugh," you groan. "You don't get to make dad jokes when you don't have a fuggin' gender okay..."
You're not certain, bare seconds after you say it, if that actually qualifies as a dad joke, but before you can lose yourself on a mental journey of comedic taxonomy Doctor Wheelwright comes into the room you're in with her best Stern Grandma Look, which is a real fuckin' good one that sends you on flashbacks to camping trips where sentences like 'go cut your own switch, girl' were deployed. So you shut the fuck up as she explains the extent of your injuries, and what was done to treat them. You remain shut the fuck up as she tells you to avoid acidic or spicy foods and drinks, to chew away from the side of your mouth where you lost your tooth, and explains, in significant detail, what 'dry socket' is and weaves descriptions of its agonies that are going to haunt your sleep for some fucking time. You are handed a tiny little pocket notebook, this dinky thing a little smaller than your hand, which has instructions for your continued recovery in neat handwriting, along with additional instructions for...
Your face burns red a little. "Cannabis tinctures?" you say in a small, pained voice. "Isn't that a drug?"
"Soda pop is a drug, girl," Doctor Wheelwright says haughtily. "And those are brave words coming from someone who invoked the Wasp in any event. My word, what are the youth coming to...follow the instructions. Follow them closely. And, Ms. Marie?"
"...Yes, Doctor?"
"If I catch you trying to leave this community before at least eight days have elapsed I will hunt you down and drag you back here in chains. Am I understood?"
"Yes! Yes you are!" Holy gods why are all the doctors here like fuckin' healers in an online game?? Why? "...Hey, where's my brother and sister?"
Doctor Wheelwright's expression softens. "I browbeat them into taking a nap in the front room. I can retrieve them, if you like?"
Would you like...?
You shake your head, feeling something heavy in your chest. "No, I'd. Like to be checked over and discharged, please. And um. Get my." Your voice gets small. "Weed."
"You are a farce, Ms. Marie."
* * * *
So you might have fucked up applying the tincture and given a little too much, but the good news is that after you got over the extremely shitty and bitter taste and held out for fifteen minutes or so the pain in your face began to reduce. A solid hour later in which you've been avoiding every child of the gods and mankind but especially your family, and it's like your face doesn't hurt at all! So you slide into the kitchens to ask for something soft and salty, and you even receive it with a minimum of fussing from the cooks. You think you know why. There's a haunted quality in their eyes that you can feel in your own.
You know, you never thought about that before. What happens to cooks and service workers that you just got out of prison, prison, and you see yourself in their faces? You make a mental note. More people the world needs to make a place for. Now fed and relatively free of pain, not to mention dressed in real clothes again, you think. And you think some more. And maybe you cry in the corner of the kitchen, silently, but since no one says anything out loud about it that totally didn't happen and nobody will say otherwise, even if they hand you a clean towel and another helping of bread, or squeeze your shoulder, so gently...
You have to leave soon. And you'll come back. You know you're coming back. But it's not safe out there, so people might, foolishly, think you're not coming back. And when they think that sorta thing the proper thing to do is to say goodbye. See? Logical.
Gotta...work your way up to the big ones.
Choose 2 to prepare farewells for first
[ ] The other kids; the little brats need it
[ ] The spiders, who need a shovel talk about your big sister
[ ] Asset Protection, who didn't even argue when you told them not to tell Orchid that you're friends
[ ] Clara, who's...not...dating your brother any more? But she tells you stories if you bring her cigarettes
[ ] The gardens, your safe place