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Jan. 8th, 2006 02:42 pmIt's going to be a long time before he's able to work out again: he knows that. But sitting around restless doesn't suit him either.
He has to get out of this room. Just to prove he can do it. He's not some invalid; he's got a bunch of broken ribs and his arm is shot up, but he refuses to treat himself like he can't do anything.
First, though, time to change bandages. There's a nice little scar developing along the edge of that knife wound on his right arm, which is good. Spike's never cared a hell of a lot about scars and the way they look, especially not on himself. So long as the damn thing isn't bleeding, he could give a shit. This one doesn't need a bandage any more.
One set of old bandages lands softly in the wastebasket.
The shoulder thing is a little more complicated: the front is easy. He cleans it and packs it and compresses it and tapes it up, no problem. The back, though... once he gets the shit that's there off it, he realizes he's going to have a hell of a time dressing that himself.
Well, fuck. Ribs instead.
Unwrapping those is easy. He knows compression's not good for broken ribs for more than a couple days; he tests them by breathing. Shallow breaths at first, then deeper. Nothing creaks, nothing cracks, nothing breaks all over again, and aside from the fact that his entire right side looks like someone dipped it in a whole lot of shikonberry juice, it's not all that bad. Tender but on its way to mending. He's satisfied: those can stay off now. He rolls all that gauze into a ball and throws it away too.
He looks from the bottle of hydrogen peroxide on the bureau and all those cotton balls to the back of his shoulder in the mirror: it really needs someone else's help. He could do a half-assed job, but then it would take fucking forever to heal. He tests his left arm: lifts it up and straight out in front of him before looking back into the mirror, feeling liquid oozing out of the opening before he even sees it.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
That walk around the lake will have to wait.
He has to get out of this room. Just to prove he can do it. He's not some invalid; he's got a bunch of broken ribs and his arm is shot up, but he refuses to treat himself like he can't do anything.
First, though, time to change bandages. There's a nice little scar developing along the edge of that knife wound on his right arm, which is good. Spike's never cared a hell of a lot about scars and the way they look, especially not on himself. So long as the damn thing isn't bleeding, he could give a shit. This one doesn't need a bandage any more.
One set of old bandages lands softly in the wastebasket.
The shoulder thing is a little more complicated: the front is easy. He cleans it and packs it and compresses it and tapes it up, no problem. The back, though... once he gets the shit that's there off it, he realizes he's going to have a hell of a time dressing that himself.
Well, fuck. Ribs instead.
Unwrapping those is easy. He knows compression's not good for broken ribs for more than a couple days; he tests them by breathing. Shallow breaths at first, then deeper. Nothing creaks, nothing cracks, nothing breaks all over again, and aside from the fact that his entire right side looks like someone dipped it in a whole lot of shikonberry juice, it's not all that bad. Tender but on its way to mending. He's satisfied: those can stay off now. He rolls all that gauze into a ball and throws it away too.
He looks from the bottle of hydrogen peroxide on the bureau and all those cotton balls to the back of his shoulder in the mirror: it really needs someone else's help. He could do a half-assed job, but then it would take fucking forever to heal. He tests his left arm: lifts it up and straight out in front of him before looking back into the mirror, feeling liquid oozing out of the opening before he even sees it.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
That walk around the lake will have to wait.
