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Her stitches have torn again.
Franziska doesn’t like to keep track of how many times it’s happened already, just that she knows exactly how to handle it every time it does, against marble counters of hotel bathrooms with a suture kit that’s always the last thing packed in her suitcase and the first thing taken out. Anyone else in her situation would see a doctor, but being forced to admit she’s ignored every single order to stop working is nothing short of humiliating, so she drowns in pride and takes the needle herself instead. Even if the scar takes months to properly heal, she can handle it. She’s sure the injury will be fine in the end.
It was for her father.
Every time she stands before a mirror to care for her wound, whether it’s merely to clean it or to redo torn stitches as she is now, Papa worms his way into her head. It’s only fitting he torments her in this way, a ghost haunting the wound they share. He’s a shadow in all but memory, twisting his presence into every darkened corner and shadow cursed by shitty, dim hotel lighting.
Franziska tries not to linger on him long–her thoughts are better reserved for the difficult work of suturing raw skin–but it’s hard for her mind not to wander when she imagines the apparition of a firm, controlling hand on her shoulder as the needle slips in. Breathing a sharp hiss at the pain, any attempts to cast his specter away are futile, and she can’t help but wonder what he’d say were he truly here.
Maybe he’d encourage her damaging habit of throwing herself into work when she knows she shouldn’t. Maybe he’d be disappointed in her for getting shot before a trial, even if there’s nothing she could have done to avoid it.
He’s always been that way, focused on every insignificant mistake and how pathetic they make her. Every missed question on a test was as deplorable as dragging crayon down the halls of their manor; every misstep was a disgrace to the family name. Even now, she still views each of her shortcomings in the way he did. A childhood of judgment and disdain disguised as tough love ruined her perception of self irreversibly.
The needle pushes too deep and she slams her fist against the counter, gasping and sputtering as the burning sting comes and goes. She pulls it out and fails not to think of Papa’s reaction, the way he’d scowl and curse and hit his cane against the desk and–
And–
In the mirror, she watches blood drip down her arm, its warmth somehow a comfort as she shakes beneath the weight of old memories. Through a blur of tears she looks to be her younger self again, locking herself in her bathroom in the middle of the night so she could cry without getting in trouble for it. For that young girl she wonders what might have become of her had such caution never been necessary; had she been raised differently and loved by more than just her brother. Could she have been different? Happy? Would she have the courage now to swallow her pride and go to the doctor instead of attempting this herself and making her injury worse?
Papa chose this path for her. Never in her life was there ever any doubt about who she’d become, the career she’d take, the perfect record she’d have. Franziska was meant to be one of his greatest achievements, even more successful than him and a perfect continuation of the perfect legacy he created. It was a prophecy carved in stone the second she was born a von Karma, a fate she couldn’t escape from even if her father had let up his severity enough for her to realize she wanted to.
But she did escape it. Her bullet was removed in surgery. Her perfect record was shattered. By her father’s standards she is no longer a von Karma, but a fraud bearing the name, and the thought of that brings an unsteady, unfamiliar feeling of relief to her heavy chest.
For the first time in her life, she thinks his disappointment is something to take comfort in.
Franziska wipes her tears and pulls a towel from the bar beside the sink, running it beneath water before using it to clean the dripping blood from her arm. With a deep breath she holds the cloth against her wound, only until she’s certain it’s stopped bleeding enough for her to bandage it. She makes no attempt to stitch it up again.
The hospital’s only five minutes away. It’s not necessary.