A/N:
Disclaimer: Sorry I'm not Jk Rowling and I own nothing out of or from Harry Potter.
I, however, own my character. My made up custom characters.Which you shall not use at all, so don't even ask.
-Grim Land
aka
Grim On Loose.
Title: White Knuckle Blackout
Chapter Two: In My Life You Sink Or Swim
--I could see it, touch it, smell it, taste it , but couldn't have it. Like by the slightest hairs reach out of your way. Almost there but not there. Having some one do that to you is like telling the sun more sun and rain less rain. It was like letting you have freedom and then taking it back.--
I didn't move. It was too painful to move now. I felt the blood roll down my arms leisurely in faraway looking rivers, sprawling around and under the sides of my flesh to pool slightly in the palm of my half cupped hand. I could sense the thick liquid gather to full and slosh over the fingers to drip increasingly to the floor, absorbed greedily by the already darkened wool carpet. I saw only the grime ridden ceiling tiles, my neck to stiff to move to look to anything pretty or more elegant. Cracks unfurled in slim indistinct patterns from one end to the other, branching out like that of a tree in spring-time. I hissed at my inadvertent absence of stability. I could hear the heavy wooden door beset with rich carvings swing open. It would puzzle you to think that a door so abundant in beauty would lead to a room caked and fowled with so many horrible memories than the expected room laden with more beauty.
"Miss? Miss? Tipsy is sent by master to heal you, Miss. Miss is not hurt too badly is she, Miss?" A diminutive little thing stepped into my range of view. She had vast ears that stuck up through her hair like a bull terrier and huge expressive eyes, pure and vibrant green. Her clothing were ragged and warn with years of use. Her stance was slightly hunched as she carried over a tray of medical supplies; potions, bandages, salve.
"T-Tipsy...Tippppppps..." was all I could muster, was all I could do now, that faint murmur, a silent begging plea. It was like the words formed on my tough, but died on my lips and the message never heard or questioned. She only shushed me and tried to set the bone that displayed freely through the meat of my leg and at the same time mend the gravely deep incise in the muscle of both my forearms. It was the way I remember it, the only way I remember it. This way, always this way. I could feel everything fading, see everything fading, but I could still hear.
"Faraday is bleeding over the carpet." It was faint, but I know it was her. Mother. Faint as a whisper, but I knew she was there.