He rolled over and let his forehead rest against the cold floor, his body trembling in echoes of the pain. He could lie here forever.
In this room. Forever.
His eyes shot open and he inhaled deeply as he pressed his hands against the floor and pushed himself to his knees. He could already see that the scar on his hand had disappeared, but – fast, he needed to be fast. Claire might've already left, or worse, caught up with Peter, in which case this had all been for nothing.
He dragged himself to his feet using the mattress as his hand-hold, then tried not to fall over. He found himself disoriented by how he hadn't actually regained his full height, but that was the least of his worries; he looked down at himself – clothing a little baggier, but that's how it looked on everyone, and he yanked his coat off his shoulders as he realized that it'd easily give him away. Knife too, if Claire had talked to Elle – and she might've.
He shoved the knife under his pillow – painfully – and then turned to face the door. He snatched up his flashlight from where it'd fallen on the ground and put his hand on the doorknob. Here went–
He froze, and then, with a frown, slapped a hand to his forehead and ripped off the small piece of gauze that still sat there. He ran an unfamiliar finger over the incision injury, finding only the few stitches that remained. No scars, just like his hand.
Quickly, he arranged the stupid bangs over the injury and then, with grit teeth, stepped outside.
M27
In this room. Forever.
His eyes shot open and he inhaled deeply as he pressed his hands against the floor and pushed himself to his knees. He could already see that the scar on his hand had disappeared, but – fast, he needed to be fast. Claire might've already left, or worse, caught up with Peter, in which case this had all been for nothing.
He dragged himself to his feet using the mattress as his hand-hold, then tried not to fall over. He found himself disoriented by how he hadn't actually regained his full height, but that was the least of his worries; he looked down at himself – clothing a little baggier, but that's how it looked on everyone, and he yanked his coat off his shoulders as he realized that it'd easily give him away. Knife too, if Claire had talked to Elle – and she might've.
He shoved the knife under his pillow – painfully – and then turned to face the door. He snatched up his flashlight from where it'd fallen on the ground and put his hand on the doorknob. Here went–
He froze, and then, with a frown, slapped a hand to his forehead and ripped off the small piece of gauze that still sat there. He ran an unfamiliar finger over the incision injury, finding only the few stitches that remained. No scars, just like his hand.
Quickly, he arranged the stupid bangs over the injury and then, with grit teeth, stepped outside.
[ Into the main hall. ]