Opening Scene
The white sheet that brought tears to my eyes eventually shrinks until it is just a ball of light energy contained by a three foot, glass bulb with '110 watt' written within a circle, both in black. There are four tube bulbs to be exact, all lined up in a metal box with a semi transparent plastic pane acting as a barrier between the light and I. This box, which provides the bulbs with the electricity to give off light and giving it the ability to burn with the power of a thousand suns and enter my freshly fixed eyeballs. This isn't just awful for someone who only thought of light as an idea until it blasted her in the face, but every patient unfortunate enough to be here.
The sleepers, either for the night or the comma that could've lasted any duration of time will get this surprise, the newborns in the nursery after there first nap will cry at it, and every hallucinating person from old to drugged will believe they are seeing the infamous 'light' and are going to heaven.
Now I know after a few minutes of hissing like the melting witch in 'The Wizard Of Oz' and blinking at the speed of a hummingbird's wings, i see the cheap looking white panels with mysterious black spots on them, helt together by strips of white platic. I pray the spots aren't mold.
The walls are white too, with one single window that looks over a part of San Fransisco, which has the sun shinning brightly over it, beating its rays on the residents while it literally burns its life away until eventually it's core explodes and creates a fireball, expanding to four times its' size and most likely swallowing Mercury and Venus before popping like a pressured watermelon and obliterating us all and creating a wide void of nothingness as a remembrance of what used to be a star. The heat on earth would reach an insane high and our bodies wouldn't be able to cope. If they were, however, we would all be melted and blown to bits when the sun does. All of the steps in this occurrence would take seven minutes to reach Earth because that's how long it takes for the suns' light to reach us.
No one thinks about that because everyone is suffocating in a bubble of their own problems. I didn't really have any until recently, but I still have room to breathe for now. Of course, when in enclosed spaces there is no fresh oxygen coming in so you are slowly replacing the necessary gas for a mammal of any kinds' life, with your respiratory systems waist, carbon dioxide. At first, that seems too literal, but thinking about it, there are people who have passed from a heart attack or illness of some kind caused by a great loss that totally consumes them. Why couldn't stress and personal issues due the same.
My right hand is free to move and I feel the cool handlebars on the hospital bed and warm sheets, heated by my body. The bed is grey, and the sheets are white, pretty standard for a hospital, dull but gentle on the eye. In my left hand, I feel Demi's. Warm, steady, tangible. All of this is alien to me, seeing the light, the box that confines us yet we call a room to make us feel better, the bed, all of it. Demi's hand is something I've grown accustomed to feeling.
When I do look up from the materials surrounding me, I will know who I'll see, I just won't know who I'll see. This is basically a mind fuck. Why? I love everyone in this room with all my fragile heart. Yet my brain will register them as total strangers because the only sound is the wheels of squeaky chairs and hospital beds bound to machines measuring someone's life in beeps and numbers. The struggle of only having four senses is real for me, the struggle of having all five is surreal. There is a big difference in the three extra letters.
I am not surprised to be in total shock when I see four people in their late teens standing there, staring back at me with hopeful looks plastered on each of their faces.
The one all the way to my right is the only boy. He's of average height and scrawny with stringy, dirty-blond hair that falls in waves over his foread and stops just before the brownish eyebrows that roof over his sea green eyes. These eyebrows seem to be playing simon says on his face, because whatever emotion comes through the light specks in his eyes, they seem to mimic. Currently, his eyes look at me with curiosity, hope, and expectance. I imagine the later is for me to speak. His brows copy by raising themselves to the ends of his bangs. When I said he was scrawny, I mean there is absolutely no prominent muscle in this poor kids' body. His arms and legs were pale sticks to match the branch torso, covered by a white graphic tee with what I think is baseball themed. His jeans should meet the hem, but his waist is not proportionate to his leg length, so even if the pants are held with a brown, leather belt, they still sag a good three inches. This boy looks like a sad pug, but maybe thats just the face he has naturally. That one must be Nathan.
The young woman next to him is very short for our age, no taller than five- two. Her tan face is framed by very long locks of brown hair than is slightly lighter than her deep brown eyes that stare back into mine with such agression I'm taken aback for a second to be able to see it is just the energy she gives off naturally. That, or she is very bothered by something and can't get it off her mind. She wears a black, my most familiar color, shirt with words on it I can't read and a symbol I don't understand. She also wears very nice white shorts that fit very well on her. I am not attracted in any way, but I can't help but agknowledge it.
The girl next to her is taller with hair slightly shorter and light brown hair. Unlike the girl next to her, her tan is more mute and she seems to naturally be skinny. This skinny is much different from the boy though. She is muscular in nearly every part of her body. Her forearms and calves especially. She must have done track and field at some point. She has a long face in a way, she is obviously not completely american just by the look of her.
The last girl standing is much taller than any of the others, close to six feet would be my guess. She wears glasses that sit over her nose in front of her green eyes and a tee similar to the tan girl with black pants that seem to be jeans. Her bouncy brownish curls are tied back aside from a thick line of bangs that look like they were modeled after a slinky. She is as scrawny as the boy, but unlike him, there is no sign of athletic potential. The headphones dangling from her neck suggest she'd prefer music anyway. She must be Jenny.
That leaves which one is Monica and which one is Katia a mystery to be solved.
"Who's who?" I ask, staring at all of them as my eyes graze back and forth across their faces.
"I'm Nate." The boy says, looking to his right.
"I'm Jenny." The tall girl says, a small smile making its way on her face.
"I'm Monica." The dark haired and tan girl says.
"And I'm Katia, but I'm guessing you knew that."
"Can you see properly?" A female voice says directly to my left.
"Aside from it being so bright, yeah." I look to the side her voice was on and I was absolutely starstruck.
On my left, holding my hand, is a slightly older woman with short black hair, neatly brushed and bangs pushed to the side. We are close enough together for me to smell the strawberry and vanilla bean that comes from somewhere or everywhere on her body. She is the most exhausted phisically and emotionally, the bags under her eyes fully showing it due to her lack of make-up which exposes her freckled skin. As I look deep into her chocolate eyes, she looks back into mine and I can't help but wonder what she sees, for I have never see my own reflection before. She doesn't smile, her mouth remains a neutral, straight line above her left ear. I see a flicker of a tatoo, a blue feather of a bird perhaps. I know she has multiple tatoos under the black tee she wears. Thinking of it, there is a hell of a lot of black in this room, was there a chance I was going to die? Her arm has pretty black birds on right arm fly under the word faith and up to her wrist to meet the word strong, part two of her stay strong tattoo on her wrist. Under part one is a big ass rose, which replaced the lips she refered to as a vagina on multiple occasions. Along the right middle finger is rock n' roll and on the inner arm of the one connected to the hand that holds mine is the number three in roman numerals. Her hand is soft, like moisterize evey hour soft, but it is calused from years of guitar playing and hard work striking them raw before strenghtening them. Kind of like the bullies that struck her untill she struck herself the countless amount of times until she was bleeding and passed out on the bathroom floor from the same wounds that are now scarred and discolored all over her arms and thighs, which aren't covered by her short shorts. Her feet have let go and let god on them, which I think go nicely with the cross on the side of her right hand. This slightly older woman is not only exhausted, but pain-stricken as well.
I was already was head over heels for her, and I thought I couldn't fall any more. I was wrong, whatever point I had fallen at, now she's got me doing backflips just to fall all over again.
She's right, She's just her. She's just Demi.
And she's absolutely beautiful.
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DUN DUN DUN!!!!!!!!!
book two is coming in with the biggest twist so far, discriptive writing that involves seeing!
I am going to combine chapters of book one and as this comes along, this as well, to make one long ass book. For those who'd prefer that. Thoughts?
Vote,comment, share, and follow if you like. Thank you all so much for reading and being active in the support of this story. You guys are the bomb. com, seriously.
ON HOLD UNTIL SEPTEMBER 16 DUE TO MOM LOGIC. IM SORRY BUT I WILL NOT BE UPDATING, ONLY WRITING OCCASIONALLY. WHEN I GET MY DEVICES BACK UPDATES WILL PRESUME ON SCEDUELE.