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Blood. So much blood. Drying, cracking on her clothes, in her hair, between her scales. Some might be hers, but she’s not sure she can actually bleed, anymore. Anyone who tests her, bleeds out over her in a spray of crimson before any of her own might spill.
She scrubs, frantically, anger and panic bubbling over until she feels she may give herself new scales just from scrubbing.
Blurry curls appear in her vision and she realizes she’s crying. A deft hand reaches out and scrubs over the scales of her arm with a pristine, white nail brush.
“Here, let me.”