I woke up slowly. There was a bright light above my head, which for one wild second I believed was the face of God or an angel looking down at me. The moment passed quickly, however. There were no angels here.
My eyes were blurry, and it took a few minutes of rapid blinking to get them into even an unsteady focus. After a while my other senses began surfacing, as if they were all standing in cue waiting to slide their ticket into the metal slot and board the train that was my consciousness. Pain came first.
It began as a dull throb beneath my left collarbone. As the seconds passed it steadily escalated into an unwavering shriek that made me wince. I arched my head back with a grimace and felt a hard, cold surface beneath it. The bright light above me dimmed slightly as I narrowed my eyes and laid flat again. I smelled old blood and rubbing alcohol.
I lifted my head slightly and surveyed the room I was in. Nothing of any real interest was in view; the small area was painted gray with a single mirror on the right wall. On the others were shelves of shiny, expensive-looking surgical tools and bottles of medication. A small laptop sat on a small table beside the door. Its screen was black.
Suddenly fatigued, I lowered my head back down again and heard the rustle of thin paper beneath me. I was obviously on an examination table in a clinic, or something of the sort. I peered up at the light again and wondered who brought me in, and what for. Probably something to do with the pain in my chest. I looked down at to investigate.
I jolted back at the alarming sight of myself. I was positively covered in blood. The bandage that covered the area on my chest that was still screaming looked as though it had been dipped in crimson paint and then wrung out. I realized that I wasn't wearing a shirt, only my once beige bra that was streaked with blood as well. The scent began to be overpowering as my senses returned in full, and I felt the familiar ache in my mouth as my fangs extended in response to the smell.
I groaned softly and tried to sit up, but the wound shrieked in protest. I managed to ignore it long enough to haul myself into a sitting position on the table, where I promptly doubled over and vomited onto the floor.
"Shit," I muttered, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I looked down at the floor - I had brought up blood. Luckily there wasn't much of it, and I consoled myself with the fact that I felt significantly better after being sick.
My legs dangled over the edge of the table, and I felt better knowing that I was still wearing my jeans.
My eyes were blurry, and it took a few minutes of rapid blinking to get them into even an unsteady focus. After a while my other senses began surfacing, as if they were all standing in cue waiting to slide their ticket into the metal slot and board the train that was my consciousness. Pain came first.
It began as a dull throb beneath my left collarbone. As the seconds passed it steadily escalated into an unwavering shriek that made me wince. I arched my head back with a grimace and felt a hard, cold surface beneath it. The bright light above me dimmed slightly as I narrowed my eyes and laid flat again. I smelled old blood and rubbing alcohol.
I lifted my head slightly and surveyed the room I was in. Nothing of any real interest was in view; the small area was painted gray with a single mirror on the right wall. On the others were shelves of shiny, expensive-looking surgical tools and bottles of medication. A small laptop sat on a small table beside the door. Its screen was black.
Suddenly fatigued, I lowered my head back down again and heard the rustle of thin paper beneath me. I was obviously on an examination table in a clinic, or something of the sort. I peered up at the light again and wondered who brought me in, and what for. Probably something to do with the pain in my chest. I looked down at to investigate.
I jolted back at the alarming sight of myself. I was positively covered in blood. The bandage that covered the area on my chest that was still screaming looked as though it had been dipped in crimson paint and then wrung out. I realized that I wasn't wearing a shirt, only my once beige bra that was streaked with blood as well. The scent began to be overpowering as my senses returned in full, and I felt the familiar ache in my mouth as my fangs extended in response to the smell.
I groaned softly and tried to sit up, but the wound shrieked in protest. I managed to ignore it long enough to haul myself into a sitting position on the table, where I promptly doubled over and vomited onto the floor.
"Shit," I muttered, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I looked down at the floor - I had brought up blood. Luckily there wasn't much of it, and I consoled myself with the fact that I felt significantly better after being sick.
My legs dangled over the edge of the table, and I felt better knowing that I was still wearing my jeans.
