Healing was a process I never had enough patience for. I didn't like doctors, and I didn't like hospitals... Come to think of it, I didn't like DMV's, dentists... Let's rephrase. I didn't like anything or any place that tried to hold authority over me, or give me serious directions. Maybe those directions are only metaphorical and suggestive in my best interest, but I had never learned to trust directions from figureheads. At least I acknowledge that it's more my fault than theirs... Occasionally. When I was little, I thought that I didn't like hospitals because of their smell. Solitary, sanitary, and paved with white linoleum. White everywhere. White walls, linens... It made me uncomfortable. The halls were stark, and upon admission you felt the sanitized air seep into your pores. Conditions were different in the US, but they felt even more sanitary. And I liked their authoritative commands and prescriptions even less. I began staying away from hospitals and doctors, having been taken care of by midwives or even what you'd call a fucking witch doctor most of my life, attributing my distaste for the places because of their "authority", when in reality? I had lost control very early, and I had vowed never to let go of it. Broken bones? Re-break to set them and let them heal. Bruises? You can turn your eyes from them, let them heal, and avoid the mistakes that helped you acquire them. Cuts? Drink some whiskey, pour it in the wound, and if you're too drunk to sew yourself up, then let the next sober man do it. I was in control of how much I was allowed to hurt, making a slow, patient healing process absolutely impossible for me.

The way Serafina's expression remained blank, almost desolate when she regarded me reminded me that I was all too sober, and whatever relief I might get rested in her hands. Her blank expression surrendered reprieve with the quiet reminder that we all have ghosts in our closets. Now, I'm left wondering... If we have enough ghosts, do we get multiple closets? I had enough ghosts, had created enough ghosts, to borrow an entire wardrobe suite at a fashion shoot. Those were the kind of ghosts you couldn't shake... Not with physical distance, or even time. In an attempt to regulate thoughts that often took an unbridled turn, I continued to drink her ridiculous tea in silence. It felt as if it was burning from the inside out, as if it wasn't supposed to be fixing the internal ailments. Was she seriously certified to do this bull -... Were there certifications witches even got? What if the potion didn't work, and I sat through this and felt sick for nothing, having to go to the hospital afterwards, anyway? Completely immersed in my own funneling thoughts, I missed her dismissing shrug, and the way her eyes lingered a moment longer than they should have had she been trying to prove to me she didn't care whether I chose to take the potion or not. Her words suggested otherwise, but even choosing to reprimand me a second time caused me to tip the entirety of the drink back like it was the whiskey I was daydreaming about. The sensation of the potion being introduced to my system felt as present and warm as a shot of said whiskey would have, but my body decided not to attack it further, and instead let the magic find its way to where it was needed most. Wherever the magic found internal bleeding- I could feel it begin to pool there, making the bruises even more tender than when I had been neglecting her tea.

I heard Serafina's sigh, cataloging whatever work she had in front of her before I felt her fingertips against my skin. Her expelled breath seemed as calculated as her devoid expression, and her nonchalant mannerisms toward me. Was I making her uncomfortable? Not many customers came in looking for potions when their condition was as mine, no. They managed to bribe someone else to do that dirty work for them, or they were fortunate enough that their roommate, family, whoever... They wanted to do something, anything to help their injured feel better. They were, oh, I don't know. Lucky? Then again, there weren't many who would subject themselves to the situations anything like the ones I constantly found myself in. Whatever the situation I landed myself in, I trusted myself enough to survive to the other side, even if it was as simple as surviving the day in a new job, or as dangerous as the attempted murder of a vampire without sufficient weaponry. While mentally tooting my own horn, I had forgotten that this whole healing process was supposed to be painful. No pain, no gain; that's the saying, right? I am a total proponent of pain on a different spectrum considering the excruciatingly thin line between pain and pleasure. This, though? I was horribly wrong about what I had intended to handle on my pain threshold in support of this healing process bullshit.

And look what instant gratification got me.

The initial injury she had chosen was painfully the worst above the line of my jeans, spanning my left side. Her fingertips, covered in salve, touched my skin with little to force although the movement could be comparable to thousands upon thousands of thick, sharp needles covered in flesh eroding acid. Is there anything stronger than that? Unaware I had been holding my breath, the first exhale I had was intrusively short and fruitless as it intensified the burning feeling both beneath and on top of my skin. I wanted to ball my t right hand into a fist and curl that arm against my side, but the injuries there were obstructing that particular desire so instead I settled for clenching and unclenching my fingers as if flexing that arm was going to do me some good in distracting my self from the pain. With immense pain, I usually found myself floating in some kind of white light, be it from a memory or something my mind did in order to let me endure; the same kind of discomforting white that I found in hospitals. I was breathing aberrantly, short but my expression was still unchanged in that my brows may have knit together, but my eyes were shut and teeth ungrit in order to neglect giving Serafina the satisfaction that I was indeed in a great deal of pain.

Before I reached white, I felt her lips tentatively press against my neck. I had had no recollection of her being that close. Her body seemed to lean into mine, (to use her arm to "heal" me better, right?), while her lips ran from the base of my neck to my jaw. It had been eery, because I initially thought that maybe she was going to put some of the salve on my neck and that's why I felt something; I had come apart at the seams the moment she had commanded me to go in her back room. I could feel every slow, hot breath against my skin after her lips had caressed a good deal of my neck. Her hands roamed my side, and as her lips roamed my neck and were closer to my jaw, the absolute white heat of the pain started to change, moving to my chest and to my arm, immobilizing me. What I would have done for an uninjured limb- hand, arm, I don't care... Enough to be able to slip a hand in her hair and kiss her the way I had imagined when her lips had all but touched mine the night before.

Pain is a funny thing. I had nearly wanted to revel in the immense, tortuous pain that I was going to receive from her healing and the potion. One, tiny part of my suggested that I get up immediately, cast her away and actually find a hospital. But that one tiny part had a soft whisper of a voice, and I had other viable suggestions to listen to. On feeling her lips against my jaw, I exhaled yet another breath I hadn't realized I was holding and softened some under her touch to let her tilt my head and continue up my jaw if she was so inclined. The gentle touch of her lips was far, far nicer than focusing on the pain still festering in a variety of wounds. Enough so that I sighed and the muscles of my chest and arm would visibly relax, and allowed at least part of me to admit that I enjoyed her kisses as much as I was enjoying the pain.