Pain. There were many types of it, and few that Bella wasn't feeling at this point in time.

The sound of chattering in the halls of the inn woke her from her slumber — no, "slumber" wasn't really the appropriate word to use. She'd been sprawled out on the floor (luckily by herself) with a bottle of half-empty brandy in one hand and the other resting under her cheek as a makeshift pillow. As her eyes fluttered open, she just — stared. She didn't move, nor did her eyes focus on anything in particular; rather, she stared at her fingers which remained wrapped tightly around the neck of the bottle as if it were her last lifeline.

She released the bottle after moment, realizing the logical step forward would be to get up, but her first attempt at that was met by resistance and an aggravated groan. Moving was too hard, much like everything else in life at this moment, and she contemplated whether she could be a functional human being from the ground. (The answer was obviously "no", which became apparent after feeling the contents of her stomach beginning to stir.)

She darted towards the bucket, taking little time to push her hair out of her face or smooth out her dress before vomiting whatever was in her stomach — probably not much at this point, bar the way-too-much alcohol she'd consumed — into the bucket. Just the sight was enough to send her hurling another time, but finally, after two minutes of wet eyes and a sour taste, and was able to fall back on her behind and take a breath.

Well, the breath didn't last very long.

After reaching up to wipe her eyes, she noticed very quickly that something was off. The hand she'd been resting on — the hand that hadn't been wrapped around her brandy — was clearly missing something: a middle finger.

Part of her was inclined to laugh, not at the missing finger, but at the obviously-failed attempts to mend it, something she assumed she'd tried when she was done. It was wrapped in a bandage, but not in manner that had been taught to her, and seemed to be secured with some sort of... thread? Did she even have thread in this room?

Letting out a groan, less in pain and more in annoyance, Bella figured she might try to find it. Should she go back to the bar? Had she even been there when she apparated home? Neither one were questions she could particularly answer, but she did have one familiar face ingrained in her memory from the night before: Arthur Pettigrew.

Fuck.

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