My body ached of scratches where my hands had caught themselves in my own person, of marks where I had bit myself in frustration. Of gashes from falling and throwing myself against the door, the walls, trying to escape to the outside. The Bites had opened as well, my hands looking like a war zone, the white scars a vivid and bruised purple. She just sat there, talking, her lime green robes were draped over the back of the chair, careful not to touch the floor. She held my hand, she coaxed sanity back into my mind with her charmed words, she draped a sheet over me, but she did not look at me. None of the nurses did.
But frankly, I wouldn't look at myself either, not in this condition. Two hundred and forty painful transformations, twenty years of shame, and I was still unable to look at myself in the mirror. I had long ago chucked the mirror from the room, unable to look at my matted hair, my bloodied, beaten face, the bruises, the scars. It still affected me as it had when I was eight.
I finally twitched, finally gave the woman some sign that I hadn't put myself out of my misery, and she helped me to my feet, wrapping the sheet firmly around me and tucking in the edges affectionately. I didn't return the smile, I wouldn't have been able to even if I could afford to make a friend. Friends meant weakness, I would forget, in their charming company what I was, just for a little, and then some sort of disaster would strike. The lack of close relationships had taken its toll on me, I knew, but I couldn't forget what I was. I couldn't bring myself to sharing a bit of my pain. Passing along this curse because of a momentary lapse of judgement, and it would be all over for me, and my victim.
"There we go, can you walk? Would you like a bit of help? You made quite a bit of noise last night, think you scared number sixty-four, your neighbour." I glanced at the door as we past it. I hadn't even realised she already unlocked my room, ushering me out quickly so that the hospital room could begin repairing itself, but she had, and I could only mumble a few gargled syllables of a reply. My tongue seemed rather fond of my werewolf form, making it difficult to eat, and speak, hours, even days after one of my disturbing nights.
Number sixty-four had already been vacated, his room clean as a whistle. Merlin, how I wanted to frown. Unable to raise a hand to rub my unmoving face, I inwardly huffed. The only expression I was going to be capable of for the next day was one of a dim-wit. Truly, my good fortune was at its peak for the month. Usually I got stuck with a pain-in-the-arse look. Literally. Huffing once more, I let her steer me down to the bathing corridor, getting a little push towards the door on the right.
"Clean yourself up nice, now. If you don't, we have to come back here from the healing corridor, and I'll have to clean you myself, properly. Don't think you'd enjoy that, werewolf or not." I didn't respond, but she seemed to get enough of an answer from my flinch. "I'm sorry, I know this is hard enough for you. You go on in there, and I'll get you a bite to drink. Something to warm your belly." I pushed myself into the bathing-room before she could say anything more, her kindness and motherly affection making my scratches ache all the more. I didn't want company, I wasn't a social person. Werewolves were known to travel in packs when transformed, as social as real wolves, but I was far more human than monster at the moment. No matter what my tongue thought.
The bath had already been drawn, the clean water looking like heaven on Earth, and I gently pulled the sheet off of me, careful of the gashes I might reopen. Slipping into the pool had been a task itself, but once the water supported my body weight, I could feel my mind relaxing just as my body did. But rather than lose my sanity, I felt it returning. The frustration and taxation from the night before finally taking over, and I shut my eyes. If I drowned, hurrah, but I doubt I would. Death whilst sleeping would be too utterly painless.
I didn't need to be completely awake to know that I was finally frowning at myself. I was being entirely too cynical about myself, no rather, everything. At least I had a chance to live among normal people. Those who were bitten by vampires had to go off, they became wanderers. Many werewolves did the same, but for the most part, I would be more likely accepted by a group of people over a vampire. I didn't need blood to survive, a werewolf only craved it for sheer victory. The door opened, but being lazy and half asleep I ignored it, allowing myself to sink a bit lower into the water. If it were another victim of the Bite, then so be it, but if it were that nurse, I wasn't ready at all to give up this small moment of peace. I ended up gargling water as something hit my face, causing me to flinch whilst my nose was millimetres above the surface.
"Don't leave your things just lying around, you'll make more mess than you need," a woman snapped. I finally opened my eyes, peeling the sheet off my face, now wet from being submerged as I had gone went under. A sudden flare to snap at the woman died as soon as it appeared, but she didn't seem to notice, twitching about her wand, cleaning the bathroom. Pushing my hair out of my eyes, I watched her make quick work of the job, before leaving once more without a single by-your-grace, and I fumed, sinking back into the water, and allowing it to close around the top of my head. I'd make quick work of her, one report to St. Mungo's and she'd be cleaning grindy-lode takes for a year.
Scrubbing my face, I let out a stream of curses into the water, all of them bubbling to the surface. St. Mungo's would technically have to reprimand her, but they wouldn't like getting a complaint from a genetic malfunction like myself. She wouldn't get punished either for her rude behaviour, even though I was a paying customer. No; no matter the organisation, the group of people, the gender or the race, nobody liked agreeing with a werewolf over a Normal. I'd just do well to scrub all the dirt, grime and caked blood off of my person so I could get out of here as quickly as possible. Once I returned home, I would be able to take a long nap, and have the company of someone who actually liked me.
Even house elves, despite their loyalty, had the choice of rather or not they liked their master, or mistress, and I had made sure that my only companion wasn't afraid of me. One of the reasons I came to St. Mungo's rather than set up a similar, self-repairing room in my own home. I certainly could afford it with the money my parents had left me.
I rose to the surface to suck in air. They'd accepted me at one point as well, but neither of them had wanted to stay in Britain whilst I faced these troubles. They'd left me a handsome inheritance and gone off to live somewhere in Africa, travelling and exploring like many aging couples do. They were still there as well, living as they chose. They sent me letters once in every week or so, or rather my mum did, and it'd been that way for a good six years now.
'I ought to move down there with them,' I thought grimly. 'Although, perhaps they moved away just to get a small break from my misfortune? I was lucky they didn't disown me.. How did my nails get so filthy?' I scrubbed roughly at my nails, trying to removed the piles of dirt from beneath them. I loved my parents dearly, but I didn't like thinking about them. Move down there, what was I thinking? I don't like having close relationships.
Merlin, I was a hypocrite.