Her eyes open in a gasp. The air is comfortable in her lungs, nice to have but seemingly unnecessary. A whisper of time and space flutter to the surface and her hands fly to her chest, fingers stuttering over the buttons of her blouse. She's wearing a blouse. Her fingers stretch, splay as if to shield. There is too much light. There are things she doesn't remember.
Visions, frames of the room, flick before her eyes like a person flipping through television channels too quickly and there is breathing. She can hear it like crystal in the air and there's something familiar. A taste, a shape; climbing her vertebrae. It spells threat and before she can blink she has flung herself back. Climbing, crouched down low from the bed like some sought of grotesque feral child into the arms of a corner. Theres a hiss in the air and it takes her a moment to realize that it's coming from her. She should be afraid. She's trying to feel something but emotion seems to have slid back inside of her, leaving this at the helm. She didn't think she used to be like this. She doesn't remember. She doesn't remember.
Theres seven. Six standing in pairs, a male and a female. The seventh, she can feel feel?, hidden behind the crowd. The closest (male, blonde, hair gelled back) is muttering, hands raised. Placating. Taunting. She doesn't know. It could all be in her head. Everything is starting to slow down. Words form between them and she slowly becomes aware of the room. Feels glass beneath her arm and spies the window. Theres carpet beneath her feet; plush and gold. She doesn't like the gold, it's too close to yellow. She remembers yellow. There's something, something and someone. A weight against her beneath the yellow cabinets.
Isabella Swan. But she prefers Bella. Her name is Isabella Swan and she's always preferred Bella. This is fact. There is fact between them. Humanoid, in-humanly beautiful, no heart beat (exist but but not alive). These are fact and fact is something that she knows. She can work with facts. Clarity curls across her cheek (exist but but not alive) and her eyes widen, open and large. She can hear for miles, twigs snapping in the surrounding forest, cars coming and going through the town limits, conversation between people she seemed to know instinctually were not anywhere close to nearby. Her sight is sharper, things have more definition, and the colors some she recognises, some she doesn't, are all incredibly vibrant. She doesn't know what to do with this kind of vibrancy, real and there. Her senses are sharp as a pin. She stands, rising from her poised position, staying with the corner. She doesn't know what any of this means. If it means anything at all.
"Bella," the closest blonde male. "Bella, how do you feel?" How does she feel? She isn't sure, she should be sure. She feels strong. Can feel it, her strength, like it were an entity all it's own sliding through her veins. But she also feels wrong, fundamentally just wrong. An abomination on several moral and biological levels. Her skin is crawling, scratching to detach from her.
"Like the presence in the atmosphere when Pennywise murdered Georgey." It's all she has for them. She cranes her neck, stretching and testing her muscles, but then a calm trickles through her that she doesn't recognise. She's quite sure, somehow, that it isn't hers. "Tell them to stop." Her voice surprises her, it's melodic like nothing she's ever heard bar the blonde mans, tries to remember if it was always this way. Stops. Tries again. She wonders why she didn't have that train of thought the first time she spoke. She is seriously out of touch in this dangerous situation and she needs to kick herself back in. There are greater things to think about. (exist but not alive)
"Tell who to stop what?" The blonde's features scrunch briefly then smooth and she decides that, though short lived, his confusion was genuine.
"Your empath. It's both unnecessary and rude. Tell them to stop." The last word comes out like she dropped it, heavy with promise and while she recognises that she is out numbered this seems quite confident that she could take them. She doesn't know how but hopes that it's right because it's out now, threat and all.
Surprise sits in the air like an oddly hung painting. It's niether here nor there, or it's both, she doesn't know, but gives a slight nod anyway as the calm fades, even as a swell of panic bubbles in it's place. Confusion aswell but they are hers and thats alright. She senses them, takes them and puts them away. There are doors for these saughts if things.
"You are Vampires?" She studies them, finds them familiar in thier faultless, pale beauty, yet alien in and of themselves. It occurs to her that this familiarity, low in her belly, is that born of recognition of yourself in another and she doesn't like that at all. Theres saddness, a sigh carried out on a frown and the slight dip of her head in resignation. "And myself as well now, I suppose."