Alcohol or morphine — it’d been indistinguishable as to which of the two induced a nausea far more unpleasant. A combination of the two, undoubtedly, claimed the throne of that title. Though, the throbbing atop her cranium— in addition to the array of “purple tokens” adorning formerly pale skin —nullified the sickening sensation whirring in her core.
The reaction had been akin to oxygen and methane. Over a trivial matter, at that; the mind of adult had been expected to rationally dismiss any useless banters, but ah — an excess of alcohol captured even the mind of the most patient. It’d been understandable that any employee harboured some sort of frustration towards their boss; however, the CEO stood strong in claiming that the manner in which she’d been exposed to that emotion…had been anything but fair. Opposing ideologies, lack of self-control — a medley of punching, kicking, and glass-littered floors prompted the ultimate arrival at this vicinity.
Strange it was, the contrast between the environment of a bar and hospital. Though, facilities of this kind hadn’t really been such a marvelous substitute. Especially when one was hooked on to machines via several wires, each with their own purpose, each equally a nuisance to the other. Tired optics flickered towards the figure seated at the other end. Reflective it was, the manner in which they’d undergo their recovery. At least having company was a pleasant part of this experience.
Grey hues grazed over well-defined features. It’d been impressive as to how calm he remained, especially in regards to the numerous injuries that marred his figure. Accustomed to it, perhaps? Only the curious would find answers. Lips pursed into a frail smile as the slope of her back pressed further into the plush hospital bed.
"So — what’re you in for?”
No point in delaying a chance to finally put that phrase to use. Who knew when another instance of this caliber would arrive?