What's home, if not the first place you run away from? What's love, if not that unexplainable, blazing feeling which comes after a period of hate?
Reputable for her catchy appearance, her over-niceness, her obsession with cartoon animations and her...
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Westlife - You Make Me Feel.
THREE DAYS LATER...
~
DARKNESS. THAT'S ALL I CAN SEE—a dark background littered with kaleidoscopes of dull, depressing colours.
Everywhere is pitch black and my eyes are glued together as if they've been closed for decades and have forgotten how to open of their own accord.
My fingers tremor involuntarily, but for whatever reason, they hurt.
Someone feminine gasps loudly. "D-did you see that? His fingers moved!"
"He wasn't in a coma, niñita." Another feminine drawl - sounding much more advanced than the previous - which I'm forced to tune out because of how my ears start to ring in discomfort. "He was sedated and the nurse did say to expect him to wake up soon..."
"But he just moved!" The girl interrupts the elderly woman.
"He's been having spasms since two days ago." The woman retorts. "Doesn't mean he's awake."
Jesu Cristo, I feel like utter shit-like someone threw me down a mountain filled with thorn bushes and then added insult to the injury by meeting me at the bottom to shoot me multiple times in the head.
Pain shoots through my sympathetic as I try to move my limbs and burst open my eyes.
My lips part in a deep, tortured groan...and fuck, it stinks—not too much, but definitely not as great as it would have been smelling if I've been conscious of my dental care.
Jesu, how long have I been with my lips closed?
"Oh, my God! See, mum? I told you...Davian, are you okay?" A girl asks me amidst shuffles and scrapes of plastic against the tiles, before a slender hand grabs me around my aching bicep; the touch gentle and mellow, like the person is scared of hurting me even more.
The girl's voice is awfully, annoyingly familiar though. Do I know her from somewhere?
I can't even take a guess, I can't remember anything relating to my current condition or where I might be, and to be honest, I don't think I want to. Trying to think hurts, literally.
My brain feels muddled like crumpled up paper at the moment, and when I try to think, both of its hemispheres throb like they're being pulled apart by an invisible force.
Dios, I need to open my eyes; I want to see where I am, what I'm wearing, and whoever is seated close to me.
Keeping all those thoughts in mind, I pop my eyes open, but it's useless really—I immediately shut it back closed due to the blinding white light illuminating my surroundings.
