Okay, in case you guys haven't read everything, this is going to be a family-fic with a lot of angst & hurt+comfort and general coming of age kind of thinking.
Also, there strong will probably be spanking in later chapters /strong but this will not be your typical bawling-over-someone's-lap kind of spanking and instead will be more of a serious disagreement on the whole matter. Trust me when I say that I don't know how to write spank-fics seeing as I have never been spanked myself. I'm going to write about the awkward situation one like myself would be placed in if they ever found themselves over someone's knees wondering why the fuck their ass is in the air.
On another note, I hope you enjoy it, since I know that there are a LOT of OC fics out there that are basically just the personification of the writer in another universe. I will try to keep that to a minimum. :)
I was not mauled by a bear. I was not raped by my ex. I was not found in a barren field, or fighting a war.
I was confined to a hospital bed. I know you're thinking about my brother, but I'm not him. Besides the way in which we were created, we share no other similarities. (Well, yeah, okay, we both have brown hair, big whoop.) But I was not dying of the same thing as him. You see, I was dying in the year of 2005. We had big time medicine and great doctors and personal hygiene and whatnot. What we didn't have, though, was the cure to Spinocerebellar Ataxia.
It appears as though I'm leaving out some big, important chunk of my life, but I'm not. Whatever came before that, doesn't matter. Once you're condemned and know you're about to die, nothing else matters. Not your brother, or your father, or even your mother. Mother... lovely mother, with warm hazel eyes and full, smiling lips and freckles on the soles of her feet... No. It doesn't matter.
What mattered then, was that I had fallen down once again and had cracked my head open on the pavement. Upon opening my eyes, my gaze was met with the most piercing shock of concerned amber orbs I had ever seen. He looked like a movie star, or a model for a well-off suit company. Blonde hair, strong chin, straight nose, pale skin and a name-tag that read 'Dr. CULLEN'. It took me a moment to realize I was laid out on a gurney as though on display and being wheeled through a sterile white hallway at a ridiculously nauseating speed.
A cold hand had found its way to my forehead, then, and I'd heard the words, "Stay with us," and not opened my eyes to see the misery laced in the last words my human ears would ever hear.
So, no, I was not mauled by a bear. I do not understand such pain.
I was not raped by my ex. I do not understand such pain.
I was not found in a barren field. I do not understand such pain.
I was not fighting a war. I do not understand such pain.
I was not staving off infection. I do not understand such pain.
I was dying of an invisible disease. I was choking on water and tripping over air. I was a burden to my family and unnecessary to the world. The only thing I can be grateful for was that I smacked my head on concrete before my family did it for me. At least I had still been able to shuffle forward awkwardly on my own, then. I can't imagine the horrors my family would have had to face if they had had to take care of my immobile body each and every day for the rest of my life.
But my story didn't end the way you must assume it did. Yes, there had been the brain hemorrhage and other internal bleeding, but no, I hadn't died. At least not in the way you're thinking of. The doctor with his striking image of perfection had whispered something to me before he slipped my eyes shut, but my confusion had mixed up his words until I couldn't untangle and dissect their meaning. Before I knew it, he'd clamped his teeth on the frail skin of my neck and I'd cried out, screamed until my voice was hoarse and screamed some more. Only when my wailing had become a high-pitched gust of exhalation had I been able to hear his soothing whispers of, "It'll be alright now, don't worry, it's going to be okay, you're doing just fine."
But I wasn't doing fine. My body felt like it was on fire, my sense of vision was becoming blurred and my lungs hurt as much as they did the first time I'd tried smoking and had inhaled much too strongly. I wish I could describe the pain to you more clearly, but the only words that come up when I try are 'hot' and 'long-lasting'. Oh, and 'terrifying'.
My transformation took three days to complete. Three days of excrutiating pain and suffering. Three days of alternative screaming and moaning and cursing God. I had been able to fall asleep for short intervals, but it seemed more like I had been hallucinating. Plagued by nightmares, it had been almost better to remain cognizant. The part which I remember the most about my turning, though, were those kind, honey-dew eyes that seemed to tell me how sorry they were. How sorry they were for the pain I was in, how sorry they were for the pain I'd had to deal with my entire life... If only they knew how blissfully painless it would become soon enough. If only I could tell them that I would be alright - that I would crack right through purgatory and rest on cotton balls in Heaven.
But just when the pain started to blend together in a sort of tangled numbness, I felt a rough shiver wrack my spine and pull me onto my feet. As soon as my toes touched the ice cold ground -or were my toes ice cold and the ground smoldering hot?- I felt the jolt of musculature expand in my thighs and send me several feet further. And ultimately, as though only really seeing for the very first time, my gaze locked with those steady, amber eyes which still radiated concern.
Though I must admit I was rather concerned, myself.
"Easy there, child, you shouldn't be moving yet."
I felt this irrepressible urge to crack my neck and turned it from side to side, exhaling happily as it loosened.
"Shouldn't I?" I asked.
The honey-dew eyes glowed and I detected a smile on the pale and handsome face.
"No," he said, and he gently gripped my arm and led me over to the couch where he made me sit, "on the contrary," he finished lamely, as if I needed the extra clarification.
I felt like I was surrounded by a thick and heavy fog, for no matter how many times I scanned my surroundings, the image of them wouldn't stick in my mind. I couldn't remember if his shirt was pale blue or forest green, and I kept forgetting what his voice sounded like, which made me look up every time he spoke to me, thinking it was somebody new who was directing their focus onto someone as vague and unimportant as myself.
But I could always remember the shape and colour of his eyes. Little golden spheres seemed to dance around his pupils and retract into daffodil flecks as they dilated. A swarm of tuesday-morning-sunlight surrounded the edges which in turn was circled by a final stroke of caramel frappucino.
An indescribable amount of time passed before I was able to discern my fingers from my toes and look up at him and see that his shirt had actually been maroon.
"How are you feeling?" he asked gently. He had the voice of a comedian - easy to listen to, luring to a fault, deep, rich and yet chipper. He didn't swallow his consonants, or raise his voice on the vowels. And me, being so stupid so as to think about these things, didn't think for one second about what he'd asked me or how to reply.
A hand touched my forehead and I was drawn to the thought of heat. For some reason his hand was neither hot nor cold and I felt myself wishing for the sting of fire burning in a cascade down my back.
"Miss Walker?" he asked, and in a split second he was doctor Cullen again, wheeling me into the emergency room.
"What happened to me?" I asked, my voice sounding shrill to my own ears.
"Are you feeling alright?" he deflected.
"Um-yeah... I'm thirsty, though." And suddenly I realised just how thirsty I was. "Very." And very wasn't enough to describe this parched feeling of longing for anything to soothe my burning throat. My very esophagus prickled with an itchy sort of sting.
"Don't worry, that's normal. Let's get you something to drink."
I don't know why I noticed this, but I always think about the little things, and it confused me when he helped me up. Usually, doctors or nurses would recommend lying flat, unmoving, dead to the world. Why was he prodding me into movement for a simple glass of water?
By the time I finished pondering this, we were standing outside in the cool night breeze, and a voice in my head was whispering 'Because it's not a glass of water you want'.
A wave of dizziness came over me and I remember thinking 'Please can we cut the ridiculously confusing bullshit for tonight?' before losing all sense of self.
Okay so that was chapter one! Let me know what you think!
Or I could make it easy on you and you'll only have to write a number:
1) Meh, could've been much better.
2) TERRIBLE!
3) I've already read a lot of these stories, and this one wasn't anything special.
4) It's ... peculiar.
5) Okay, you've prickled my interest, I'll keep reading and see if it's worth the while.
6) It's better than the other stories I've read that are similar to this one.
7) You're doing good, cookieface :)