Work Text:
Pogo’s leathery hand in hers.
Bright, bright florescent lights.
Disinfectant.
The dentists chair. Grey
Sick. Sinking dread.
Grace’s shiny white teeth.
Dread. Fear. Sick.
Tight, tight binds against her wrists.
Burning. Burning. Burning.
Darkness.
Pain
Fei snaps awake. She fumbles for her glasses, thrown by her vision being from the top of the lampshade. Her world is skewed. Her hand connects clumsily with her glasses. Wearing them, she can’t touch her face.
She can resist the temptation to run light fingers over the puckered skin. She shouldn’t need to reassure herself that the blisters are more than two decades gone.