Got the dreamer's disease
Slapping sense and recovery into the stuffed dog doesn't seem to be enough, so she plops him onto the couch. Rolling up her sleeves, one of which immediately flops back down like a tired accordion, she locks her hands together and begins to bounce them up and down on his plush chest in another effort of rescue. The rhythm is all over the place, and if you were to ask her, she'd say this is the cutting-edge process now.
The stethoscope has become a bit dislodged in the process, the long rope of it dangling wildly back and forth as she gives mock CPR her all. Unfortunately, he's got cotton-disease, and it's usually quite grim an outcome. "That's it," she declares with a sudden solemnity, drawing herself up to her full nine-year-old height above the couch cushion stretcher. Scrubbing her hands down her face, cheeks peeling away from her eyes briefly with the sag of this decision, Fern exhales loudly. "We have to go in. It's the only way."
Fulfilling the scene with a commitment she'll surely regret later, Fern whips around and races to a nearby desk. The stethoscope fully pops free and tumbles to the ground, abandoned now in favor of some new tool of medicine. Retrieving a pair of scissors from the little cup of pens and office supplies, she stalks back to her patient with them raised up in the perfect mashup of Annie Wilkes and Norman Bates. "It's the only way!" she repeats, solemn with the risk at hand. "You're a brilliant doctor," she whispers just before plunging the scissors into the patient's chest.
The entry proves harder than she first thought, and she lifts them once more to try again, which is about the time the hel squawks and a clattering of limbs and breath rouses outside. Fern's skin prickles with immediate goosebumps, startled out of her dramatic operation in the rude fashion only Hel's can manage. Regardless, she flings herself onto the couch, clambering over the stuffed dog, scissors still in hand as she perches on the back and peers out the window. One hand presses on the glass, cheek smearing against it as she peers down at an angle.
Hel or not, an animal in most any shape is worth watching while it's here, but she can certainly say she's never seen one quite like the dangling boy on the sill across from her. Gasping faintly, eyes widening, Fern watches him struggle for a moment. Scissors then click loudly on the window pane as her other hand joins the first, struggling to open the window now. Grunting, she manages to get it cracked enough to duck her voice out. "Why are you up there?" she and her scissors wonder.
The stethoscope has become a bit dislodged in the process, the long rope of it dangling wildly back and forth as she gives mock CPR her all. Unfortunately, he's got cotton-disease, and it's usually quite grim an outcome. "That's it," she declares with a sudden solemnity, drawing herself up to her full nine-year-old height above the couch cushion stretcher. Scrubbing her hands down her face, cheeks peeling away from her eyes briefly with the sag of this decision, Fern exhales loudly. "We have to go in. It's the only way."
Fulfilling the scene with a commitment she'll surely regret later, Fern whips around and races to a nearby desk. The stethoscope fully pops free and tumbles to the ground, abandoned now in favor of some new tool of medicine. Retrieving a pair of scissors from the little cup of pens and office supplies, she stalks back to her patient with them raised up in the perfect mashup of Annie Wilkes and Norman Bates. "It's the only way!" she repeats, solemn with the risk at hand. "You're a brilliant doctor," she whispers just before plunging the scissors into the patient's chest.
The entry proves harder than she first thought, and she lifts them once more to try again, which is about the time the hel squawks and a clattering of limbs and breath rouses outside. Fern's skin prickles with immediate goosebumps, startled out of her dramatic operation in the rude fashion only Hel's can manage. Regardless, she flings herself onto the couch, clambering over the stuffed dog, scissors still in hand as she perches on the back and peers out the window. One hand presses on the glass, cheek smearing against it as she peers down at an angle.
Hel or not, an animal in most any shape is worth watching while it's here, but she can certainly say she's never seen one quite like the dangling boy on the sill across from her. Gasping faintly, eyes widening, Fern watches him struggle for a moment. Scissors then click loudly on the window pane as her other hand joins the first, struggling to open the window now. Grunting, she manages to get it cracked enough to duck her voice out. "Why are you up there?" she and her scissors wonder.
Fern
This world is gonna pull through, don't give up
