Post by Bridger Marshall on Oct 31, 2013 17:43:29 GMT -7
It had been almost five months since Bridger had overdosed but things still hadn't gotten any easier for him. He had just recently stopped working for the death eaters, and his sixteen year old ex girlfriend was pregnant with his twins. Life just seemed to have a way of not working out for him and it was so stressful. He wanted to be with Olivia but things with the death eaters had been way too dangerous and he didn't want her to get hurt but his safety precautions had only caused complications with her and now he was just barely starting to fix things. All he wanted was the best for them but he was only making things worse.
Just when things were starting to look slightly up, he got an owl that was upsetting. He had to go back to St. Mungo's for a check up, and normally he wouldn't think anything about it but he was covered from head to toe in bruises and cuts; bad ones, really bad ones. Not to mention, when the letter was ignored, they only sent hundreds more. It wasn't something he could really get out of. He couldn't just explain to the doctor that he was working for the death eaters, he had to make up a lie, which his life had been surrounded by them for the last year so he was good at it now, though it seemed impossible to come up with an excuse good enough to sell when it looked like he had been continuously beat over a course of months and months. As Bridger walked into St. Mungo's and waited until his name was called, he nervously played with his hands trying to convince himself that the doctor wouldn't notice the visible bruises on his arms that his own scrubs couldn't cover. Once his name was called he followed a nurse back to one of the empty exam rooms and waited for the doctor to come in so he could get it over with.
Just when things were starting to look slightly up, he got an owl that was upsetting. He had to go back to St. Mungo's for a check up, and normally he wouldn't think anything about it but he was covered from head to toe in bruises and cuts; bad ones, really bad ones. Not to mention, when the letter was ignored, they only sent hundreds more. It wasn't something he could really get out of. He couldn't just explain to the doctor that he was working for the death eaters, he had to make up a lie, which his life had been surrounded by them for the last year so he was good at it now, though it seemed impossible to come up with an excuse good enough to sell when it looked like he had been continuously beat over a course of months and months. As Bridger walked into St. Mungo's and waited until his name was called, he nervously played with his hands trying to convince himself that the doctor wouldn't notice the visible bruises on his arms that his own scrubs couldn't cover. Once his name was called he followed a nurse back to one of the empty exam rooms and waited for the doctor to come in so he could get it over with.