Time to get out

Well, no point stewing in here any longer. I push down with my hands, put strain on my legs, and, despite the stabbing pain from my wound, I get up. My knees feel weak and I’m having trouble keeping my balance. My stomach growls, it feels hollow and deserted. It's not worth it trying to remember the last time I ate anything. I walk around the spring, to my stuff, and take a knee next to the box. Unsurprisingly, the insides under the lid are a mess. There is an evening attire, a casual set, a knife in a simple leather sheath, an explosive knick-knack or two.

I pick up my amulet first and clasp it around my neck, feeling its effects return on my body. A tingling sensation at the bridge of my nose, an itch at the tip of my jaw, a prickle at the middle of my sternum, and a flutter at my solar plexus. It always sucks putting it back on. I gather my work clothes from the ground; a pair of black denim pants, a bloody green tunic riddled with holes and cuts, most notably a massive rip at the height of my stomach, and my standard-issued black trench coat.

I put them back in the box in a disorderly pile, making a mental note to get them washed and ironed later, and pull out my casual set; a blue long skirt, a loose white shirt, a pair of plain underwear. I slip the panties and the skirt on. Then I pause, looking at the rest of my clothes.