I had a very weird night. I dreamt that Lisa Cuddy fell to her death (apparently she was the antagonist) and I was crying myself hysterically over her dead body. Oh no. And Cameron was trying to calm me down as I was shouting for House (?) and he was coming up the stairs. (The setting seems to be this ornate, not-so-brightly-lit place with huge staircases) And then I was crying against him. I remembered that he was wearing grey. In other words, it felt so real. When I woke up, I was feeling confused and I thought I was actually still back there.
Okay, allow me to breathe…
I shouldn’t go into detail before I terrify my DA friends (: so now, on to those short stories! I may just continue one of them if you have a preference. If you want to have a dream discussion, we should do it… at college or anywhere but here? Or maybe here is okay too. Haha.
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Music: Stacks, Bon Iver
She didn’t need anyone to tell her the truth. It was so obvious. The heart monitor beeped monotonously, rhythmically, indicating the steady beats of her weakening heart. Every beat sent a spasm of pain coursing down her spine. She was consciously aware of the breathing apparatus that was inserted down her throat. It’s rough texture only rubbed her trachea sore.
Take it off, she thought dully, just take it off and let me die.
The room was dimly lit by the thin line of sunlight that peek through the edges of the curtains. The light didn’t bother her, in fact, she was yearning to let go. Anyway, she can’t ask for anything more than light. It was what she wanted.
Death is coming for me, she thought drowsily against her pillow. He will lift me up in his arms and take me away, hopefully to a much better place where I can exist from where I am now.
As if her words were a herald by itself, she could make out a figure beneath her eyelids. She struggled to lift them, but to no avail. The silhouette was shrouded by the poor lighting of the room, and it aggravated her not knowing, yet she was oddly intrigued.
The figure approached her sick bed. She opened her mouth to speak, only to realize that the wretched breathing pipe was blocking her larynx. But remove it, and she will die quicker than she could string a complete sentence together. Pathetic, she thought angrily to herself. You are, that’s what.
Whoever the person was, there was no conversation, no question. As the shadow glided further into the line of light, she could make out a male form.
It was Death. He came for her. It struck her now, but then, you can’t regret when you’re dying. You’d die anyway. Death moved swiftly, gracefully to the curtains and pulled them apart ever so slightly. A generous amount of sunlight-but not harsh to be glaring-cast the room in a much healthier, happy glow. Maybe he wanted to have a more optimistic approach while taking her soul. Or perhaps, she thought, he wanted to look into the eyes of the dying before he did it.
What was left of her breath caught in her raw throat when Death walked slowly over to her, and seated by her bedside. Her heart attempted what would have been a wild beating, but only managed faint, erratic beeping on the monitor.
“I’m offering you a permanent solution to your problems.” His voice was soft, barely a whisper, but she caught every word. His speech was oddly enthralling, musical; it didn’t suit the whole black, Death image. It sounded like the music she wanted to hear. How stupid. She was probably dreaming, indeed.
Death lowered his head, and his face was visible. Her heart jumped; so did the monitor. This couldn’t be Death. He was probably an angel. Such beauty only existed in fairy tales, legends and myths. His heavenliness struck her as a painful chord. Her eyes ached with the intensity of it. Either way, he was too winsome to be human. The Angel of Death smiled, and it was perfection in his features. She couldn’t move, which was a good thing.
He reached towards her face, and laid a hand on her cheek. His skin was porcelain, as pale as an albino. It felt so smooth that she wanted it to remain in that position forever. Was Death making her feel comfortable before he carried out his duty? His other hand switched off the machine, and closed around the breathing tube and gently, expertly, withdrew it from her throat. She felt no pain. She was probably paper thin, anyway. He could break her if he want to.
Her mouth felt free from the plastic taste of the tube. But her eyes-with the last ounce of her strength-was drawn to his face, the face of an Angel, but with the mission of Death. Again he smiled his beatific smile, crooked this time. And he lowered his face to hers.
She was too drained to speak, to even respond. His features were highlighted in its own perfection up close. His sweeping eyelashes, his glossy, luscious black hair. So glorious.
“I’m your solution,” he whispered, and she caught sight of his eyes for the first time. From far, they appear black, but now, they glistened a crimson red. Blood red. Vampire. Death. She was transfixed, if she wasn’t immobile already.
The stunning Angel dipped down, his flawless lips meeting hers.
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Whew. First story down! (: