The spill out in the driveway was marked by a cry of dismay and the thud-crunch of two bodies hitting the ground. Margot had been walking by supporting herself with arms around her mentor's middle, and had made a weak attempt to keep him from spilling too severely to the ground. This resulted in them both landing on asses and knees instead of on damaged arms and torsos, at least. That made getting back up off the ground less of an ordeal, though Margot did have to get basically hoisted up since she just clutched at her lower ribs and dry-heaved some when she tried herself.
It wasn't quite so apparent in the dark of night, but come morning there would be an alarming number of red dribbles and smears leading from the jeep to the house, especially where she'd caught herself landing with one open palm to the ground. Inside the red was more apparent; red dyed her hands solidly, streaked bright down her arms and dried dark where it dribbled regularly from her elbows at the bend. The white laces on her shoes had turned red; the rest of the shoe was black and thus unaffected but they looked wet and squished quietly (unpleasantly, in a way that sent a shiver up her spine the first time she felt and heard it) with each step.
When she heard it combined with a small 'squeak!' of rubber on tile in the entrance, Margot hesitated and frowned uncomfortably. The red smeared her face as well, but she hadn't touched it in a while (lesson learned) so the blood was flaking from her cheeks and tear trails cut clean lines through the mess as well, and it made her look all the more miserable as her expression downcast further when she turned her hands to catch a glimpse of the dark weeping holes in both palms. Unsurprisingly, still going. Swallowing hard, she pulled her arms back to herself so she could tuck her hands firmly under either armpit to try and staunch the flow of the blood in the black tee-shirt she was wearing.
"I could use some of that... And towels." And, flinching with her steps, she tried to shuffle toward the kitchen.
It wasn't quite so apparent in the dark of night, but come morning there would be an alarming number of red dribbles and smears leading from the jeep to the house, especially where she'd caught herself landing with one open palm to the ground. Inside the red was more apparent; red dyed her hands solidly, streaked bright down her arms and dried dark where it dribbled regularly from her elbows at the bend. The white laces on her shoes had turned red; the rest of the shoe was black and thus unaffected but they looked wet and squished quietly (unpleasantly, in a way that sent a shiver up her spine the first time she felt and heard it) with each step.
When she heard it combined with a small 'squeak!' of rubber on tile in the entrance, Margot hesitated and frowned uncomfortably. The red smeared her face as well, but she hadn't touched it in a while (lesson learned) so the blood was flaking from her cheeks and tear trails cut clean lines through the mess as well, and it made her look all the more miserable as her expression downcast further when she turned her hands to catch a glimpse of the dark weeping holes in both palms. Unsurprisingly, still going. Swallowing hard, she pulled her arms back to herself so she could tuck her hands firmly under either armpit to try and staunch the flow of the blood in the black tee-shirt she was wearing.
"I could use some of that... And towels." And, flinching with her steps, she tried to shuffle toward the kitchen.