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𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝·𝐥𝐞𝐭·𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 /ˈblədˌlediNG/
noun 𝗛𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗖𝗔𝗟
•The surgical removal of some of a patient's blood for therapeutic purposes.
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"Keep your eyes open!"
Someone's carrying her, in a bridal carry, and gently at that.
How odd.
"Eyes open Warren!"
She's lost some blood, it's a distinct woozy feeling that she knows particularly well.
Did she have another exorcism? Jaques hadn't warned her that one was schedueled.
She questions the nun that's assumingly carrying her, the one with the funny man voice. The nun asks what the fuck she's talking about.
Nuns aren't supposed to say "fuck". Maybe it's the priest who conducted the whole thing – the piousness of those is solely performative, usually. It would also explain the low voice.
"Hiya Father, think ya cut too deep dis time."
"What on earth, Warren?"
"Did ya get da ghosts outta my blood?"
St. Joan's did their exorcisms differently, believing in Humourism – the theory that too much of any bodily matter – like blood – could affect your health negetively. They thought the Devil could be purged from the body through bloodletting.
"You're delirious, Warren."
"Yer funny, Father."
He really is, nice voice too.
Certainly better than Father Pete, who died.
"Hope ya don' die like Petey, Father."
The arms that hold her go stiff; the priest's breathing stops for a long moment – oh? Were they friends?
Do all priests in England know eachother? Do they hold little meetings-
"Just- just stay awake, we're nearly there."
"Petey died, Father," the world is a whirlwind of color and her limbs dangle like lead weights at her sides – her mind is the only thing running wild, and losing blood made her lose her filter. "Ya know why?"
It's why they gag her during the exorcisms.
"'Cause he touched them little kiddies, hehehe."
The breathing above her speeds up rapidly, the large hands of the priest dig painfully into her flesh. The footsteps also get louder – where are those coming from?
"Never me though, no siree! Too ugly for the nonce, hehehe."
The hold on her tightens further, she's rather sure that the priest carrying her is having a panic attack – serves him right for bleeding her dry in the name of God.
"How do you know Father Pete, Myrtle?"
Ugh.
Not Myrtle, good grief – drain her till she's a husk of herself, sure, but at least write the lesser of two evils on her tombstone.
"'s not my name. Name's Elizabeth."
She passes out again.
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YOU ARE READING
⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑
Fanfiction❝ 𝐈𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 isn't the only Londoner in Hogwarts, dreading summers under the German air bombings, wondering if he'd live to enact his plans. Cue a girl living on borrowed time, who couldn't give less of a shit about dying. ╰...
