Saints protect her now
come angels of the lord,
come angels of the lord.
Danté's eyes cracked open, everything a blur at first glance. He groaned the sound coming out more suppressed and drugged than he cared for. Fighting to keep his eyes open, Danté looked around; his eyes landed on Faythe, asleep in a nearby chair. Automatically he reached for her, or made to. The action jerked him back, the friction of bandages against sliced skin stung, some of the miniscule, half-formed scabs tearing and bleeding again.
He coughed out a sullen moan, wishing he could remember the preceding events. Danté lay back, closing his eyes and accepting defeat. A cold hand touched his forehead, soft lips pressing to his own. Danté's hazel eyes opened to meet Faythe's violet-blues. She pulled away, moving back to the chair.
"Faythe, please." He whispered out pleadingly. She stopped dead in her tracks, his eyes fearful of her absence. Faythe moved back to him, climbing into the bed, and laying her head on his chest as he fell quickly back to sleep.
Danté sat up, covered in a cold sweat. Three months had passed since he had been released from the hospital. He was sober, but never quite the same; and he knew he never would be. Panting, he slid out of bed, hands shaking. Making his way to the bathroom, he caught Vincent looking at him from his bedroom door. Slowly Vinny shut the door, obviously going back to bed.
"Shit!" Danté cursed, stubbing his toe on the sink of the bathroom.
The shower was good, though on the cold side. He didn't have much time left at school; a few weeks were all. Life would truly begin on graduation day. Hopefully, it was a life with Faythe.