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Aug. 29th, 2013 02:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sunbaked_bakerIt has been a few days since Rae was discharged from the infirmary, after her rather disastrous entry into the bar. Getting around is proving to be much more frustratingly difficult than she anticipated. Every part of her is sore, despite her continued use of lesser painkillers. Some movements or pressures her body just won't tolerate, and she has found it maddeningly easy to overtire herself.
Her broken clavicle has already proven (very sharply) that it won't tolerate the pressure of kneading or using a rolling pin - even if she's trying to work around the sling she wears - which has left two batches of dough to go to waste, today. Rae supposes she could read some more, but she has read more in the last couple of days than she has read in the last month, and reading isn't the kind of distraction she needs or wants.
She does try - with the help of one of the infirmary rats - to remember not to exert herself, to sit often and elevate her sprained ankle, but those quiet times give her far too much opportunity to dwell on the events of the other night. It's not something she wants to think about, even if it's starting to creep back into her dreams. Rae needs to be making something - something not related to blood or violence in any way. Being unable to do so leaves her feeling off-center, fidgety, trying to find something to do with her hands so she won't dwell on what other things her hands have done. This lack of activity is a layer of unhappiness separate from that of simply being injured and waiting to heal.
So there is a baker sitting outside at one of the picnic tables, this afternoon, her scraped-knuckle hands kept still by holding onto the mug of tea before her. She wears a yellow camisole and lime-green shorts in addition to the bandages that help to support her bruised and broken ribs and the sling that supports her right arm and shoulder, and those bandages that cover her other various injuries. Her feet are bare, the one wrapped in bandages lying on the picnic table seat next to her. Sighing, Sunshine breathes in the fragrant steam from her tea, and tries not to think.
Her broken clavicle has already proven (very sharply) that it won't tolerate the pressure of kneading or using a rolling pin - even if she's trying to work around the sling she wears - which has left two batches of dough to go to waste, today. Rae supposes she could read some more, but she has read more in the last couple of days than she has read in the last month, and reading isn't the kind of distraction she needs or wants.
She does try - with the help of one of the infirmary rats - to remember not to exert herself, to sit often and elevate her sprained ankle, but those quiet times give her far too much opportunity to dwell on the events of the other night. It's not something she wants to think about, even if it's starting to creep back into her dreams. Rae needs to be making something - something not related to blood or violence in any way. Being unable to do so leaves her feeling off-center, fidgety, trying to find something to do with her hands so she won't dwell on what other things her hands have done. This lack of activity is a layer of unhappiness separate from that of simply being injured and waiting to heal.
So there is a baker sitting outside at one of the picnic tables, this afternoon, her scraped-knuckle hands kept still by holding onto the mug of tea before her. She wears a yellow camisole and lime-green shorts in addition to the bandages that help to support her bruised and broken ribs and the sling that supports her right arm and shoulder, and those bandages that cover her other various injuries. Her feet are bare, the one wrapped in bandages lying on the picnic table seat next to her. Sighing, Sunshine breathes in the fragrant steam from her tea, and tries not to think.
