[ it's late. so late marta doesn't even dare check what time it is, but by now the adrenaline from the attack has seeped out of her veins and the desert's unforgiving chill has reached her bones, making her lips pale and her teeth chatter. still, she doesn't think to return back to her room at thornbush inn, instead dragging her feet to the saloon like she's being drawn there by some magnetic force.
her body tells her she rest, or if not that then at least tend to the gash above her brow, still dripping blood down the side of her face. there's blood all over the rest of her too, staining her nightgown and her hands, but it isn't hers. it's why she's here, doing what she's about to do.
(not because she's scared, not because she knows he wouldn't be.)
she knocks once, twice. a third time for luck, though it seems a silly thing to wish for now. ]
is that a gun in your pocket;
her body tells her she rest, or if not that then at least tend to the gash above her brow, still dripping blood down the side of her face. there's blood all over the rest of her too, staining her nightgown and her hands, but it isn't hers. it's why she's here, doing what she's about to do.
(not because she's scared, not because she knows he wouldn't be.)
she knocks once, twice. a third time for luck, though it seems a silly thing to wish for now. ]