“Left untreated, it will kill you. Now… you’re free to go wandering off again and die. Or…” Sanctuary, holding a small bottle of distilled clear alcohol and a rag, sits on the floor and points to a cushion beside him. “You can lend me just an ounce of your trust, and let me help.
Goma considers this for a moment, standing over him with her arms folded firmly across her chest. It isn’t much of a choice, she has to admit. With a petulant growl she sinks to the floor beside him.
“I’ll have to touch you. It may burn, okay?” he asks, dousing the rag with a splash of alcohol.
“Fine,” Goma replies, huddled stiffly beside him in the cramped space. She looks as though she’s ready to shoot up and leave at any moment. Sanctuary carefully cradles her chin in his hand, turning her head gently to take a closer look at the wound on her left cheek. It’s a raw and red avulsion, and while it isn’t actively bleeding, it has been weeping a pale fluid down her jaw and neck to the point of soiling her shirt. It seems an infection has spread into her left eye, which is red and dilated when not squeezed shut by the pain. Her left ear is completely gone, the small cavity of her inner ear all that remains. Even part of her scalp has been removed. Her short nearly-white hair grows in scraggly tufts around the wound.
Sanctuary breathes. “...Stars. When did this happen?”
Goma sucks air through her teeth when he touches her with the alcohol soaked rag, wincing in pain, her vision abruptly darkening.
