May 20th, 1893 - after this
Daff landed in her apartment with a dizzying thud. The landing had been far from graceful and between the blood dripping down her forearm and the uncomfortable sensation of apparating, she couldn’t stay fully upright. Falling back against the kitchen door frame, disoriented and short of breath, she knew she had to stop the bleeding, but she was too overwhelmed to move, the panic attack gripping her and freezing her into place.
It took several minutes to find the coordination to move, breathing quick and irregular, tears persistent and all-encompassing as the time ticked by. Should she have gone to Ama’s place? Absolutely. Was she ready to explain to her eldest sister yet again why she needed medical attention? Absolutely not. How was she to explain the tears or the hyperventilating in relation to the cut? She couldn’t and so she would figure out how best to handle it herself. There was dittany on the shelf in the washroom and after she forced herself to take a few deep breaths, her hand was steady enough to summon the essence from across the room.
Awkwardly uncorking the vial, she set it down on the counter before gingerly unwrapping her finger from its make-shift bandage. Not one to shy away from an injury, as she had plenty of them over the years, the long slice in her forefinger didn’t phase her much. It was pretty gruesome, skin jagged and raw, the sheer amount of blood coming from it alarming, but she managed to use the dropper on the dittany to drop a few splashes along the cut, hissing in pain, watching as the skin sealed itself up into a nice, neat scar. Good. A good reminder of what an idiot she was.
She looked like a murder scene, handkerchief soaked red, apron sporting a blood stain, her dress discolored at the neckline and sleeve. It was hard to tell which was worse, her physical appearance or her tattered emotional state. Daff pressed the heels of her bloodstained hands to her eyes, wholly unsure of what to do next. The tears leaked slowly before, but now the floodgates were open and any progress she’d made to calming down was ruined.
The smell of the blood was making her sick to her stomach, and she lurched toward the sink to wash it all off. She stripped off the apron, throwing it to the ground, grabbing the brush from behind the sink. Her finger still ached, but she scrubbed harshly at her skin anyway, as if she could wash away the embarrassment and sick feeling in her stomach, watching the water in the sink run red as she berated herself. The humiliation ran deep, but she knew that wasn’t really the problem. Had it been any other situation, other than whatever it was she had unintentionally walked in on, she could have easily laughed it off, might have even accepted help to get cleaned up, but she had this dread welling up in the pit of her stomach that she couldn’t dispel.
What was wrong with her? She had never been this person, insecure and emotional. Daff scrubbed relentlessly until her hands and forearms were free of any remnants of the blood, pink and raw, but devoid of any evidence of what had happened. She grabbed the nearest tea towel and dried herself off, using the cloth to wipe her face as well, but she knew she still looked like an absolute mess.
Though it was hard to tell through the sobs, Daff could see the stains on her dress still and in her frustration, she fumbled over the buttons of the bodice, trying to rid herself of that as well, anything that reminded her how foolish she was. Daff left the bloodstained clothes in the kitchen sink, stalking across the apartment to her all-but-abandoned bedroom to see if she had anything else she could put on. Shaking hands pulled at the ties of her overskirt, tossing it to the bed as she tore open the wardrobe, relieved to find she had a couple of dresses hanging in there still. She hadn’t been staying here, was still uncomfortable being here alone, but anything was better than the tension in the workshop. She had ruined that space for herself now and the realization had a fresh wave of tears overtake her.
The frenzied energy that had propelled her back to the flat was waning and as it seeped away, the heartache crept in, leaving her winded. Cleaning up the physical problem meant she only had the emotional one to deal with and she didn’t know how. Her legs were shaky, the panic rising again and she tried to sink down to the corner of her bed, but wound up on the floor, hands pressed to her chest to push back against the ache.
How did she bounce back from this? Elias said they were just friends and she believed that from him, but he clearly didn’t recognize how Irene looked at him. Daff may not be the world’s most observant person, but even she could see in the brief glimpse through the window, a reflection of her own affection mirrored in Irene’s gaze, in how she had reached toward him. Daff had done her best to push that down, still believed Elias when he insisted that he didn’t feel that way about Irene, but now it was far too obvious to ignore. Daff couldn't shake the feeling that something was going to break, she just didn't know what. But what she did know was that whatever it was would undoubtedly be her fault and she couldn't cope with that. Sighing heavily, Daff dropped her head to her knees, curling up in the dim light of her desolate bedroom, unable to wrap her head around what she could possibly do about this.
It took several minutes to find the coordination to move, breathing quick and irregular, tears persistent and all-encompassing as the time ticked by. Should she have gone to Ama’s place? Absolutely. Was she ready to explain to her eldest sister yet again why she needed medical attention? Absolutely not. How was she to explain the tears or the hyperventilating in relation to the cut? She couldn’t and so she would figure out how best to handle it herself. There was dittany on the shelf in the washroom and after she forced herself to take a few deep breaths, her hand was steady enough to summon the essence from across the room.
Awkwardly uncorking the vial, she set it down on the counter before gingerly unwrapping her finger from its make-shift bandage. Not one to shy away from an injury, as she had plenty of them over the years, the long slice in her forefinger didn’t phase her much. It was pretty gruesome, skin jagged and raw, the sheer amount of blood coming from it alarming, but she managed to use the dropper on the dittany to drop a few splashes along the cut, hissing in pain, watching as the skin sealed itself up into a nice, neat scar. Good. A good reminder of what an idiot she was.
She looked like a murder scene, handkerchief soaked red, apron sporting a blood stain, her dress discolored at the neckline and sleeve. It was hard to tell which was worse, her physical appearance or her tattered emotional state. Daff pressed the heels of her bloodstained hands to her eyes, wholly unsure of what to do next. The tears leaked slowly before, but now the floodgates were open and any progress she’d made to calming down was ruined.
The smell of the blood was making her sick to her stomach, and she lurched toward the sink to wash it all off. She stripped off the apron, throwing it to the ground, grabbing the brush from behind the sink. Her finger still ached, but she scrubbed harshly at her skin anyway, as if she could wash away the embarrassment and sick feeling in her stomach, watching the water in the sink run red as she berated herself. The humiliation ran deep, but she knew that wasn’t really the problem. Had it been any other situation, other than whatever it was she had unintentionally walked in on, she could have easily laughed it off, might have even accepted help to get cleaned up, but she had this dread welling up in the pit of her stomach that she couldn’t dispel.
What was wrong with her? She had never been this person, insecure and emotional. Daff scrubbed relentlessly until her hands and forearms were free of any remnants of the blood, pink and raw, but devoid of any evidence of what had happened. She grabbed the nearest tea towel and dried herself off, using the cloth to wipe her face as well, but she knew she still looked like an absolute mess.
Though it was hard to tell through the sobs, Daff could see the stains on her dress still and in her frustration, she fumbled over the buttons of the bodice, trying to rid herself of that as well, anything that reminded her how foolish she was. Daff left the bloodstained clothes in the kitchen sink, stalking across the apartment to her all-but-abandoned bedroom to see if she had anything else she could put on. Shaking hands pulled at the ties of her overskirt, tossing it to the bed as she tore open the wardrobe, relieved to find she had a couple of dresses hanging in there still. She hadn’t been staying here, was still uncomfortable being here alone, but anything was better than the tension in the workshop. She had ruined that space for herself now and the realization had a fresh wave of tears overtake her.
The frenzied energy that had propelled her back to the flat was waning and as it seeped away, the heartache crept in, leaving her winded. Cleaning up the physical problem meant she only had the emotional one to deal with and she didn’t know how. Her legs were shaky, the panic rising again and she tried to sink down to the corner of her bed, but wound up on the floor, hands pressed to her chest to push back against the ache.
How did she bounce back from this? Elias said they were just friends and she believed that from him, but he clearly didn’t recognize how Irene looked at him. Daff may not be the world’s most observant person, but even she could see in the brief glimpse through the window, a reflection of her own affection mirrored in Irene’s gaze, in how she had reached toward him. Daff had done her best to push that down, still believed Elias when he insisted that he didn’t feel that way about Irene, but now it was far too obvious to ignore. Daff couldn't shake the feeling that something was going to break, she just didn't know what. But what she did know was that whatever it was would undoubtedly be her fault and she couldn't cope with that. Sighing heavily, Daff dropped her head to her knees, curling up in the dim light of her desolate bedroom, unable to wrap her head around what she could possibly do about this.
![[Image: Daff-Sig-Spring24.png]](https://i.ibb.co/vq7FC43/Daff-Sig-Spring24.png)