Shattered Fangs (Remastered)

Jess- 6 -Half-Bound

My mind is drifting, floating in space, the moment before I realize that I am awake.

Somewhat, at least. I can feel the world around me, no longer soft and hazy, but solid, and real.

My skin feels clean, and fresh, my body covered with a quilt up to my neck. I'm still on the bed that I fell asleep on.

Did I fall asleep? Or was it something else.

My eyes fly open, although the rest of me stays still. I take in my surroundings- everything looks the exact same as I remember it being, before I fell asleep. I'm in the same place as before, in the same bed.

But why am I not still in pain?

I remember only flashes. Blood, broken bones pinching just underneath my skin, something sticking out of my abdomen. All the memories are covered in a haze of red, burning agony coloring every single moment.

Except for the moments where I saw my angel of death, their face creased with worry. It was easier because of them, just to have someone there. I might not have been strong enough to hold in the screams for my own sake, but for their sake, I could bear the pain.

I lay, hypnotized by the sight of those red eyes in my memory, the image of the ethereal, genderless being that tried to save me from the worst fate.

I sit up slowly, pulling aside the comforter, expecting yet another wave of crippling pain to bring me to tears. But no pain comes. I am miracuously free of discomfort.

The skin on my hands is smooth, unbroken, and when I pat them over my stomach, I can find no hole, no scar, no arrow shaft. There is not even a single speck of blood on my body.

My red-soaked pajamas are gone, replaced by a beautiful wine-colored dress that fits me perfectly, the fabric hugging all the right curves on my figure. The soft, stretchy fabric feels good on my skin, the material reminding me of a pair of leggings.

Did the angel bathe me and dress me when I was asleep?

If it were anyone else, I would be furious, but, for some reason, I know that my privacy was respected. My angel would never do anything to hurt me. I'm glad, that at the very least, I didn't have to wake up in a panic, covered in dried blood. That would have made things a million times more difficult.

I swing my feet bare on to the floor to stand, only to end up staring at myself in the mirror hanging on the wall. I take several steps closer, drawn in by the image reflected on the glass.

There's not a blemish on my skin- not a scrape, not a speck of blood, even my teenage acne has vanished. I'm a shade or two paler than I last remember, but that could just be because I've been inside, asleep for who-knows how long.

My hair is clean, and free of tangles- like it's been washed and dried, brushed out with care- cascading in perfect mahogany ringlets to my waist. The dress fits my body perfectly, like it was made just for me, the skirt cinched at my waist and hanging down to my knees.

I glance up at my face once more, only to be met with something foreign, unexpected. Framed by thick, black lashes, a pair of crimson irises, flecked with gold, staring back at me. Their shock mirrors my own, but surely these eyes cannot belong to me- a far stretch from the emerald green that I was expecting.

My gaze darts away, to look anywhere, anywhere else than those changed eyes. But even as I turn away, I can realize the similarity of them to those of my angel of death.

I notice someone sitting on one of the couches, as my gaze wanders. The back of a head, short black hair which seems to sit whichever way it pleases. I can hear a noise coming from the person, what sounds like a heartbeat, but it's far too slow. When I try and measure it against my own pulse, though, the beats match up exactly.