Flashback [Nira'lia] A Piercing Comfort

[Philomena]

24th of Summer 511, Early Night

The evening in the Infirmary had grown late. It was the hour past normal instruction, when students nervously paced on rounds, when the more seasoned of the healers on call slept soundly in empty cots.

Minnie Lefting entered with her own quiet - there are three sorts of quiet towards a place, for usual subjects: etiquette, stealth, and reverence. Minnie moved with a terror and cringing discomfort most suited to the third. It was the heat of summer, and her dress was thin, with sleeves worn loose for the breeze to enter, but atop her head she nonetheles had pinned (none-too-expertly) a drooping felt hat, and her neck was tied tightly with a thin, linen scarf. Clearly, however, this was no social call - she wore partly the pallor of terror, but partly the more sallow paleness of pain in her face, and her hand was wrapped with a mass of clumsy, but clean, muslin, that she held tight against her chest, her hand gripping nervously at the neckline of her dress. She came just inside the door, shut it, and with almost a bowed head, stood still, quiet, either waiting or plotting her next move.

After two beats, she managed a weak, mewling, "He-Hello?" Her voice was unattractive, a wheedling, nasally twang, the affectation of an attempt at culture in her tones, but the firm bedrock of a native accent of the poorer parts of the city. She pushed up her spectacles on her nose with a shivering finger, and waited, patiently.

[Nira'lia]

Nira’lia was once more in the infirmary. She liked the infirmary, and offered her services. In return, she learned various things about her profession.

Her house was nearby, but tonight, she was spending the night in the infirmary. There were a row of beds that were meant for the use of its employees. Those around her were lightly snoring. The place was already asleep. They were light sleepers and if a patient came inside in the middle of the night, they would wake up.

However, nobody woke to the door opening. Even the man who was on duty and staying near the door had dozed off on his desk. As fate had it though, Nira’lia couldn’t sleep, and she needed a drink of water. She slowly walked to the main room, her eyes on the ground.

She was just grabbing a glass when she heard a voice speak up. Amidst the silence and dimness of the room, she almost screamed and dropped the glass. Eyes wide, she gaped at the person who was standing by the door. At first glance the woman looked like a child, but there was something about her that indicated that she was simply not.

Nira’lia couldn’t delve into that train of thought any further. The woman was clutching a hand. Quickly, the Konti put the glass aside and strode over to the newcomer.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” she said in a hushed voice, avoiding rousing the sleeping patients and the person on duty who had dozed off.

[Philomena]

Upon a nearer approach, the woman is so obviously, clearly in shock, its a wonder she made it to the infirmary without someone seeing her and taking her there - a miracle perhaps explained by the late hour. Her chin is shaking, and her pupils are dilated, her face is pale and clammy. The right hand, that which was wrapped in a death grip around the stitching of the neckline of her dress, shakes visibly. Part of this is simple physical shock - the symptoms are so classic as to reach almost to the point of parody. Part is not, her eyes dart about with a hunted, terrified look, and the tremulo of her voice is more horrified than weak.

Aside from this, there is the smell - spirits. It is not the beery odor of drunkenness - in fact her breath has a mixture of mild sweetness, and the earthy tones of a dinner of Kelp fritters - but rather the smell of clean spirits, antiseptic and sharp. The smell, perhaps of a freshly cleaned trauma ward. The smell is too strong to be pleasant.

Aside from this, her breathing is coming in short, panting breaths, and as she speaks, her lips are a little slow to take the necessary shapes. She holds the muslin-wrapped left hand out with a dullness that would be stupid to the point of simple-mindedness if it wasn't accompanied by the dull pallor of her face and voice, "My hand, I... I cut it open, some. It is cut. Are you a healer?"

Only now, does she really focus on the younger woman's face, her eyes turning slowly to find her, behind the wall of her thick blown-glass spectacles. They wander, confusedly up and down the length of their subject, getting lost on details of the woman's dress, or on the shape of her fingernails, or the hollow beside her nostrils.

[Nira'lia]

“What is that smell…?” inquired Nira’lia, more to herself than to anyone else. She took a quick glance around the infirmary as if she could find the source. It was the scent of spirits, and it was strong. It took her a while to realize that it was being emitted from the girl. “Yes, I’m a healer. Here, come, let’s get you seated on a bed.”

The Konti was worried. The woman seemed weak.

She led the woman to one of the empty beds. Its sheets were clean and freshly changed, and a white cloth separated them from the rest of the room. The Konti gestured towards the bed and patiently waited for the woman to take her seat. When she did, Nira’lia took a chair and sat in front of her, politely asking for the woman’s hand.

“What’s your name…?” asked the Konti as she slowly started to unwrap the bandages. The scent was so strong! Had the woman self-medicated? What had she done? As she went about the task, her fingers touched the woman’s skin. For a second, the Konti’s surroundings changedNira’s Konti gift is to see a person’s happiest memory upon first touch. You can describe what she sees in your post if you wish. . Nira’lia waited until the vision cleared and continued.

As she got closer to the wound, the unwrapped bandages became crimson with blood. Finally, the bandages were put aside and Nira’lia gasped at the awful sight of the wound.

Her hand had an awful cut on its back, between her thumb and fore-finger. It had not been a clean cut, her skin torn and ragged. The skin surrounding it was red and raw. The wound and the skin around it were damaged, as if it had been scrubbed carelessly. Aside from that, the wound was still bleeding.

“What… how many hours ago did you get cut?” she asked. “And did you do anything to the wound?”

[Philomena]

The woman was endlessly, if somewhat distractedly compliant, following, sitting, offering her shaking hand. She was obviously agitated and nervous, and kept herself huddled into as small of a space as possible, nervous to touch anything around her. The dusky light of evening made her pallor deeper, as she spoke, "Yes… yes, sit… yes, ma'am, I…" the sentence trails off. She stares with a shivering horror at the bandage as the woman peels it off - no terror left for this mess, only horror. It is wrong.

And then…

And then…

The unconscious mind, though it communicates nothing of its perturbations to the conscious, has its strange tides and waves. When the lady touches it, its current are struck, as if by the keel of a heavy, sudden ship. //Happy…// calls the ship, drawing through the caverns, //Happy…// Happiness in this particular sea is a peculiar point to navigate towards, and vision shimmers, quivers a moment, half formed shadows passing before coagulating into a past scene unbeknownst to the memory's owner.

Minnie - for it is to early for to be Minnie Lefting even, (much less, Dr. Lefting or Professor Lefting) is prone, her skin pale and shivering, in a great chamber. The air is cold and dank with the smell of a multitude of young girls. She lays on a bed, the roughest of linen sheets on it, that scrape rough against her equally rough skin. She is, perhaps, 12 - it is difficult to tell precisely, for even then, she is stunted and small. She lays in a circle of girls, all around her, menacing in the dark light, and she is nervous. One of the girl's shakes her head slowly at the foot of Minnie's bed, as another puts down a stout wooden pole on the ground. Then, another girl leans over. Minnie drops her quilt, and balls up tight, covering her face with her hands. The leaning girl balls up a clumsily sculpted, scar-knuckled fist, and as if in slow motion, it flies, flies, flies, directly toward Minnie's belly. And just before it strikes, just in that instant, the eye of the vision is drawn close, a certain tension, unrelated to the immediate, the habitual tension of the always frightened, the always hungry, the always lonely, loosens in her face, goes slack even, replaced for just that frame in time, for just the sliver of a moment, with something almost like peace. The fist lands clumsily in the side of her belly, just above the bone of her far too sparely fleshed hip, through a rough, worn linen nightdress.

And then…

It was gone.

Minnie watched in stillness, obviously still oblivious, as the bandages paused, then continued to unwind. She cringed slightly as the healer gasped, her shoulder hunching, in a childish way, but in the way a child cringes at a flying hand, when they know what it is to be struck by it. The healer spoke, and Minnie's eyes watered slightly, her voice a little wavering. "It was at lunch, ma'am, and I tried! I tried! I should have waited, I should have waited, I couldn't. I was so frightened, I was so frightened!"

She peered up at the healer from under a frightened brow, and made a voice between a mewl, and bawl, and a whimper, "It were a fish knife, I were cutting it for lunch, and part of the fish 'ad spoilt, I shoulder been more cautious, I shoulder been more cautious! I tried ter clean it, I tried, I tried, I tried ter clean it. I tried ter clean it. I tried ter clean it! I couldney get it clean, I couldney…" As she speaks, the tears start to pile into great threatening clouds on the edge of her lower lid, and her voice, as it rattles along slowly devolves. IT began with an almost highbrow diction, almost TOO proper, perhaps, but as she speaks, as her obvious tension begins to shiver apart, it falls deeper and deeper into the low cant of the poor, of East Street - not, to the discerning listener, the can't of today, but something dated and quaint, and more a child than a woman's intonations of it.

"It is too late. It is too late! Its t'late, t'late, t'late, t'late.." she whimpers, staring at her hand with wide, horror-laden eyes.

[Nira'lia]

The woman in front of Nira’lia was trying to explain herself. Her voice was muddled in panic and fright—the young Konti couldn’t understand why. Nira’lia looked at her and saw that her eyes were watering up.

She had seen a number of strange things in her life, but this was definitely one of the more puzzling ones. Numerous memories had already passed by her eyes before, but they were mostly normal and fleeting. It was not common to find someone who held a memory that was intensely intriguing, and… concerning.

Nira’lia seemed unfocused as she strained herself to understand what the woman was telling her. “Calm down…” she said in a gentle voice. The others were sleeping. It would be worse if they woke and came to approach the frightened woman. The situation would turn more troubling.

This was someone who appeared to be perpetually frightened. It was evident for she found it horrifying to be interrogated by a healer—and interrogation was a healer’s job.

“What is too late? The wound? No, no, don’t worry. We can still fix it. Breathe… okay? Let’s give you a few moments. Try to calm down. You don’t need to be scared.”

This woman was lithe but she had the evidences of aging. In contrast to the Konti, it was easier to gauge a human’s age. This particular one looked to be on forty or so, if Nira’lia would guess. It made Nira’lia uncomfortable to try to talk to an adult as if they were a panicking child.

Nira’lia was piecing it together in her mind. A wound which was sliced from a fish knife, and she had attempted to clean it herself. Judging from the looks of the wound, she had not done a good job. Perhaps she had been too rough, or perhaps she had used substances which irritated it further. It was difficult, but Nira’lia had to question her further. The older woman was suffering from what seemed to be a panic attack, but the Konti couldn’t halt in her questioning. It was important, and the wound looked serious.

If it turned worse, she would have to wake Mistress Claira. She was unsure of how to deal with the woman.

“You tried to clean it, yes, I understand now,” said Nira’lia with concern. She tried her best to speak cautiously and kindly as to not alarm the woman. “What did you do exactly?”

[Philomena]

Minnie had entered wearing the carefully woven veil of disassociation, that blessing to the terrified wherein one can remove one's self from the present realities of a situation with which one is clearly incapable of dealing. It was difficult, in fact, for her to even come in, it was a leaky barrier between the reality and the necessary contingencies of forced self-perception. Normally, she would more likely have ignored the cut, and pretended nothing was wrong, when clearly, something was. It was that very wrongness, after all, with which she was incapable of grappling.

Faced with the sudden and present, unavoidable realities of the situation, now, the veil is drawn back, perhaps, more quickly than she can handle. There is still the light of an intelligence racing around her eyes, she is not completely abandoned to her frightened instincts. She senses the quiet of the room and tries to restrain her frightened voice, from what would have been a cry to a mewl, or to a sharp, intense whisper.

"I cut it, I cut it..." the word cut cuts her now, her eyes quivering, her voice in its quivering, whispering intensity, the voice of guilty confession, not the voice of explanation, "I wa' being careful, I wa'... I am clumsy... oh, I am clumsy," her hand with an almost involuntary jerk moved to smash itself angrily against the edge of her seat - she is weak, though, and the healer so cautious, that she likely stops the self-inflicted blow. "I try so hard. But I cleaned it! I cleaned it, I promise, I cleaned it, I cleaned it wi' white-spirit, I scrubbed it with soap, I scrubbed, and scrubbed and scrubbed, and poured, and scrubbed..."

This will, to the practiced eye, explain much. The rough, rosy parts around and within the edges of the cut bear tiny blisters - the eye might recognize them as a combination of friction burns and chemical burns from very harsh lye soap, far too firmly applied. The flesh in the bottom of the wound, has edges of leprous white, where the application of alcohol to lye damaged flesh has killed the edges of that flesh. The tearing of a serrated blade has been made worse by the overly vigorous pressure of clumsy hands. A cut, that is already an unpleasant experience, but the cleaning process for this would have hurt, terribly.

She takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes a moment, the little flicker of intelligence trying to rather, to recenter herself. To reassert its control over the galloping cart of her brain. Her voice comes out lower, now, with the tremulousness of forced calm. The tears pour over now.

"I'm... I'm sorry, miss," her accent regathering itself, a little, into a more presentable form, "I was a little frightened, maybe."

[Nira'lia]

“Why are you frightened? There’s no need to be frightened, really.”

The Konti tried her best not to lose her composure. Fortunately for her, an air of calmness came naturally. While her mind was in turmoil with confusion, her expression did little to show this. Truthfully, she was starting to grow frustrated. She kept her eyes on the wound as the lady spoke in that odd way of hers.

The woman was clearly frightened, maybe even traumatized. But it was just a cut! It was a bad cut made worse with a mix of—did she say white spirit and soap? There was also the unending scrubbing, judging by the way she had described it.

Nira’lia moved Philomena’s hand its side, examining the wound further. There was evidence of burns and intense rubbing.

“Oh my, did you use lye soap? Those burns look terrible…” she whispered under her breath.

Gently, she put Philomena’s hand down. The Konti was deep in thought for a few moments, thinking hard about what exactly had to be done. The substances that Philomena had used had irritated her skin, and they still seemed to be lingering there. They had to be washed off quickly—as much as that would hurt her. The thought of making this frightened lady go through that would be difficult, no doubt. But it was necessary.

“Here is what we need to do,” said Nira’lia, forcing a sweet smile. “We need to flush off those substances of your skin using cool water. I’ll be back with water, alright? And… it’s going to hurt, but it will be bearable, alright?”

[Philomena]

At a better moment, the old professor would perhaps have noticed and found amusing the irony between 'there's no need to be frightened' and 'it's going to hurt'. In the current circumstance, a sense of irony is not perhaps her foremost power.

The mention of pain, in point of fact sends a cleansing shudder down Minnie's spine, and she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and nods quickly, saying nothing. she leaves the hand wher eit is, and pulls her tiny legs up to fold against her chest, wrapping her good arm around the knees. Her eyes, now she keeps shut, forcing herself to take long, slow breaths, to calm, calm, calm. Pain - even the threat of pain, is the great clarifier, in many ways. And Minnie is as frightened by her own confusion as she is by her pain and terror.

After a moment, in the wait, she begins to murmur - the word, from a more talented throat would be sing, but its half-voiced and unpracticed, and so it comes through as a vaguely pitched murmur, but with the rhythmic regularity, and low sonorous quality of a lullaby, chanted at the lower extermities of one's range, the sort of song one might employ to soothe an infant. IT is very soft, so soft as to be unlikely to wake any but a very close sleeper.

"Lully-low, Lully-low, la-lai. Lully-low, my child
Lilly-low, la-lai."

Additionally, it seems to soothe her, to help her in the regulation of her ragged breath.

"It is cold, It is cold, but I have a rabbit-skin,
Wrapped close around you.
We'll wait for mother in the cold, cold night.
Lilly-low, la-lai."

The sight is less panicked, of course, and thank goodness, but in many ways, it is the culmination of the whole regression she had been going through the entire visit. Curled up, now, her face half buried in shadow, she looks like a frightened child, she looks... in many ways like a little girl, who once lay in a narrow bed in a great chamber and waited for a blow to come.

She murmurs the song, rocking just perceptibly, the broken flesh of her hand laying slick and still on the bed.

[Nira'lia]

The Konti nodded at the lady and walked away, towards the corner of the infirmary where the water was stored. As she looked at the basins, she heard the soft murmuring of Philomena’s song. Nira’lia blinked and glanced over at the dark corner. It was a nice lullaby, yes, and the woman’s tone seemed to be less panicked. That was good—but the idea of waking everyone else was not.

She heard someone stir. With a slight frown, Nira’lia scratched the back of her head. Fortunately though, the melody wasn’t distracting enough to actually wake the other patients. The Konti went back to fixing what she needed. By the corner, which housed various cleaning materials, were several basins and buckets of clean water.

’With those kinds of burns, we would probably need to wash it with a moderate amount of water.’ she thought to herself. These basins and buckets… they looked heavy.

Nira’lia gently took a nearby stool and placed it near the basins. Consequently, she also searched for an empty basin and placed it right in front of the stool. Then she walked back to Philomena, taking a few seconds to listen to her song.

“Hey, uhm, on second thought, could you come with me?” she asked. “You can sit by that stool, the one with the empty basin right in front of it. Uhm, also, I think I forgot to ask for your name…”

What Nira’lia planned to do was to ask the lady to put her injured hand forward, above the empty basin. She would then pour clean water over it using a pitcher, which she would do so in the gentlest manner she could.