The one thing she continues to remind herself is that she has, in fact, endured worse than this. A low, ragged curve of a scar down the right side of her abdomen is proof enough of that- as are the injuries she arrived without in January.

...

It'd just be easier to remember if it didn't sting quite so much. Mentally she gauges her level of discomfort on a scale of strange vascular throbbing to flaming ground glass under her fingernails. This comes up roughly around a live wire shoved in her ear. So. It stings. Like a bitch. Enough that speaking is not her first priority, but some things needed to be said, questions asked, answered, etc. So she forces the words through tightly grit teeth.

"Some elaboration on exactly how much I apparently fucked up-" She cuts herself off with a hiss, watching him pack the wound. "...I forgot how much that itches."

More than an itch, it's supremely uncomfortable. Better than bleeding out, however. She swallows past another low, terribly virulent string of obscenities to continue her earlier thought. "Would be pleasant. Especially if you could manage something beyond 'you chose wrong so you are an idiot'. I got that enough during the divorce."

A beat.

"None that we have in this clinic."