This
fire runs in through my being I'm alive, I'm alive
Burning I'm not used to seeing
you
When I woke, the fire was gone.
I curled my fingers around the cloth around me, the feeling strange against my skin.
I looked down at my arm. It wasn't swollen, or bruised, or red, or charred beyond recodnision. It was there.
I felt myself make a noise. A mix between choking and gasping. My throat felt dry, and my head spun feverishly. The room seemed to be eighty degrees. Although not worse then being roasted on top of a fire, it still remained uncomfortable. I unconciously threw the blanket aside, a breath I hadn't known I was holding breaking from my lungs and seering my throat. I imagined it's how fire breathing dragons felt.
I stared at the ceiling absently for a moment, thinking, wondering where I was, where I had last been, why there were empy ice packets wedged under the blanket. Though it was clearly pitch black in the room, everything seemed to be lit by a thousand tiny ligtbulbs hidden beneath the walls, creating a sort of dim twilight that didn't feel natural.
I sat up and looked around. I remembered the room, the bed I sat on, from months, maybe years, ago. I had been bleeding, then I had been eating, in here, this room. There were cookies?
I swung my legs over the bed, the sudden ease a shock after a seemingly endless stream of pain gaping throughout my current memory strand. A slight tingle. Uncomfortable, maybe. Not painful. I basked in it.
I stood, my legs wobbling and knocking together like garbage bags filled with Jell-O. I reached my hand out, the palm landing on the post of the bed. I leaned against it until I was sure that I could walk three inches without killing myself.
I felt around the end wall until the cool metal of the doorknob is in my fist, the steel like dry ice on my uncomfortably warm skin. I turn it, and shuffle onto the hallway carpet.
The light that my eyes seemed to produce led a pathway into the kitchen. It was like autopilot, my stomach controlling the movement of my legs until I was standing in front of the refridgerator and the door was open, revealing nearly empty shelves of old food.
I took the only thing that wasn't rotten, two apples and a jar of peanut butter. The light flicked on, and I jumped, bashing my hip against the counter.
My eyes widened at the sudden light, the back of them suddenly on a sudden rampage against my brain. I gasped, covering my face with my hand, the apple clattering to the tiled floors.
"Max?" It was Fang's voice, groggy from sleep.
"Jesus, turn off the light!" I cried, my palm pressing into the edge of the counter until I thought it would bleed.
"What? Are you okay?" He was honestly worried, as far as I could tell. I clenched my teeth.
"Turn it off!"
The light went off, and my shoulders untensed, and my arm fell down to my side.
"What are you doing?" he asked incredulously, looking at the fallen apples and the opened fridge.
I blinked, his figure blurry to my eyes, " 'm hungry."
"No, I mean..." he gestured to the bed, to me, "...you were just...You..."
I made a face, rubbing my fingers against my forearm, "You know, it's your way with words that really amazes me, Fang."
He gaped.
"I mean...I'm not..." I started, wondering what i was saying, how I looked.
I felt his hands around my wrist, and I felt them get tighter and tighter.
"....the fuck...." he muttered.
"What?" I demanded, pulling my arm back and holding it to my chest.
He looked at me as though I were an alien.
"What happened?"
A/N At least it's something.