Clove jerks into consciousness and is caught in a moment where her body is blissfully unaware of the state that it's in.
The searing pain in her head is absent temporarily, until she finally clocks back in and it takes her absolutely by surprise, and it's all she can do to keep from screaming out loud.
Clove can almost feel herself hemorrhaging, the drag of a thousand red-hot fingers scraping away at her brain.
Pushing energy into her stiff limbs, she barely manages to roll onto her side and heave violently over the edge of the gurney.
It's not much more than bile, which would have to mean she's been out for at least a day or so.
Clove sinks into the hard surface under her. She learned long ago, as a child, that by lying so, so still you could almost quit existing.
It was a useful technique on those days that her incompetency and failures during her training overwhelmed her.
She waits until the sound of her heartbeat has dulled to a soft whisper before she begins to take in her surroundings.
The room is a pale shade of green and smells faintly of antiseptic and cotton.
There's a large glass window directly in front of her, but the blinds are drawn to keep people from peering in and her from seeing out.
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