"His fingers scraped like frostbite against your skin, frigid and chilling. You were almost tempted to look and see if the places he touched had gone black and blue."
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The unshakable feel of adventure always wracked through your bones as though yo...
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|1.
Your breathing is shallow. You can feel the rasp of the air against your throat, blood spilling from within. It's not subtle as it drips down from your chin onto your shirt, your new shirt stained with red and hurt. Red you can barely see. Red that falls under you in droplets as you force yourself to move. Red that puddles when you are not quick enough.
Your head spins like it was never connected to your neck in the first place. The edges of your vision fade fast, splotching as you groan and stagger. Step after step, you climb to a familiar doorway, a familiar home.
Faintly, you recognize the blood you've left on the handle, and you let go, stumbling towards the door bell. Before you can press the button, the door slams open, and you're cocooned in a man's arms.
He's saying something, you know, but your ears are flooding with the sound of your heartbeat. You press your lips together, in an attempt to speak. The blood slurs your words.
"'m sorry, only needed help." You say. You think you've only really said half of the sentence, but you hope it'll be forgiven, due to the predicament.
The man responds and you're too tired to listen, but he nudges you up in his arms anyway. The movement makes you groan in pain, and the man speaks again. This time, your eyes wander up to him and the sight of Dr. Carlisle Cullen greets you.
He sets you down and you immediately squeeze your eyes closed. Ow. Shouldn't doctors be a little nicer to their patients?
"Apologies."
Your eyes slide over to him. You don't dignify that with a response.
The room around him is horribly blurry; dull, unsaturated colors overwhelming you— even those that you can vaguely recognize as books and decor. Some are silver, or gold, and they blur like car lights in your tear-filled eyes.
Dr. Cullen makes some racket to the right, but your eyes don't look to him. Instead, they drift to a portrait of four men, dressed almost as if they lived in the 17th or 18th century. You scoff at yourself. They probably were alive back then.
As you squint to look closer, you move from the outrageous ruffles on their clothing to their pale and deadly faces. You can't see anything precise from how you're laying, but all of them are devastatingly handsome, made from sharp angles and royal-like features.
