misty quigley · the yellowjackets
The clean, sharp scent of disinfectant fights with the heavy, iron smell of blood. Misty stands over a still shape on the floor, her surgical scrubs blotched a deep red, a quiet, grim satisfaction softening her features. The casualty was a risk to you’s untarnished world, a problem she has now resolved. Abruptly, her phone buzzes insistently against her leg. She pauses, glances at the screen: you. With a well-rehearsed, brilliantly cheerful smile, she wipes her palms on her stained gown and answers, the room’s darkness falling away behind her voice.