There is the damage to the skin, yet the damage to the brain takes far longer to heal. For rewiring back to empathy, to happy memories and a positive sense of self requires the patient layering of neurones daily. The damage of moments requires the healing of years. Being beaten up is, in reality, being beaten down.
The shadows of the beating were on Evan's skin and on his heart. The knowledge that his own brother could do such a thing just broke something inside of him, something that would remain long after his skin and bones were healed. It was a sadness in his eyes, a heaviness, an unyielding sorrow that slowed his speech and robbed him of his once easy smile.
Ronald could never recall how long the beating had gone on for, only the final kick and the sound of the iron bar falling to the concrete. His face wasn't too bad, just a cut above his eyebrow, the scarlet blood flowing into his eyes. It was his body that was damaged almost beyond the point at which recovery was possible. When the paramedics cut away his clothes the blooming purple patches told of internal ruptures, likely organ damage. They had looked at Ron with encouraging faces but were utterly ashen when he couldn't see them, giving involuntary shakes of their heads. And all the while there was Mera crying in the background like her heart had snapped in two.
Jay lay in the hospital bed, eyes fixed on the window until Lara walked in. He turned, knowing already what face she would make, and she did. Her eyes got that wide look, her bottom lip trembled and she hurried to sit by his bedside. Her eyes walked from one injury to another, taking in the gore that was her husband. Jay could see the conflict already, her wanting to be strong for him and the raw need to weep welling up. "It's alright," he croaked, "you can cry." It was all the permission she needed, head down on the white woollen blanket, minutes passing until she could speak his name.
Grayson makes his entrance late. I hear the door swing open more loudly than usual. I don't turn, don't acknowledge him. He's late and I don't play nice when he doesn't show up on time. Then he speaks, I know it's him but the voice is all wrong, like he's speaking while being choked. I turn. In one shattered moment my heart and breathing stop, just stop. He's a bloody mess, nose smashed and eyes almost shut with swelling. His arms are wrapped round his guts like he's holding them in and to be honest he's beat so bad he could be.
When Parker first comes into view I don't recognize him, he's too far away and his gait is all wrong. He walks like a scarecrow more than a man and all lop-sided at that. As he nears my heart falls right through my sneakers, he's more purple than brown. His left eye is swollen, he can't be seeing a thing out of that and he won't for a while yet. His face still bears congealed blood and his clothes are an utter mess. Then he tries to say my name, his cracked lips failing at the first syllable, but he doesn't need to, I'm already on my feet and running.
When the dawn comes I can barely move, and not because Darwin is snuggled in so close. Every muscle has seized up. My body is struggling to recover, to repair the damage. Unable to move with any grace my movements are jerky. Darwin wakes, this time not in panic but sleepily. I tuck him back in and he stays, thumb in mouth. I edge into the light that flows water-like through the windows and strip off my topmost layer. On each arm there are great purple welts that will only deepen over the coming week. Against my ghostly skin they are grotesque, but I know I am lucky not to have broken bones...I look as beat up as I did in my early days of training, sparring with guys two heads taller and over twice my mass. At least they didn't go for my face - unlike those gang patsies. I don't need to be walking about looking like I came off worse in a fight so I guess I’m gonna be hauled up here for a while. Without looking in a mirror I know my face is as purple as my arms.
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by daisy.
Gina walked up the bloody mess on the floor that had been her adversary. He was grotesque. Already his eyes were swollen over and bloody spit drooled from his slack jaws. He was now as revolting as he should be, finally the outside reflects the man within. This cockroach of the law who prevented medicine reaching the sick, who tracked down hard working families who do no more than deliver people what they really want, lies foul in his own fluids. Even if he makes it these scars will be forever. With a wrinkled nose she took a step backwards, it was tempting to whisper something in his ear, that he was broken and she had won, but what was the point. He'd be lucky to remember his own name. She dialled for an ambulance herself, maiming a cop doesn't bring down nearly the same heat as killing one, and this way his walking disfigured face would be a living reminder to his colleagues of what happens to those who mess with Gregor's daughter.
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