Shattered Hearts (A TMI Fanfic)

Who are you?

*Hey everyone I'm not a big fan on this author's note stuff. Please don't get offended if you don't see much of these. Thank you! Hope you enjoy!*

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"Eva! Get up or you're going to miss school!" I hear my mother holler from downstairs.

I sigh. I don't want to open my eyes; not quite yet. I let my other senses wake up before I have to see another day of this damned town. It's kind of my morning routine to let myself try to envision that I could be somewhere else before I have to accept reality. I can feel the morning rays tumbling through the curtains, warming me. I mentally groan. If the sun is filing through my window then I've already missed the bus. I hear birdsong and our neighbor's dog barking outside. I catch a whiff of chemicals through the thin walls and I know my mother has started her daily cleaning routine. I push the scratchy floral print sheets off me and roll over to get up. I stop, sensing more heat in the bed. I slowly open my eyes-

And almost have a heart attack. I stare into two separate night skies without the moon and stars. They're eyes, I realize with a start. I feel my eyes widen as I realize that there is a boy laying in my bed. His looks are just as surprising as his sudden appearance in my room. His hair is such a light blond it's almost white. His body is long and lean; long enough that his feet dangle off the edge of my bed. He wears a simple ensemble of jeans and a white T-shirt. The shirt is so thin I can see the  tattoos that have conquered his person. They are all over his body. Spiraling up his muscular arms and some just peek out under the collar of his shirt. Taunting me. I follow the markings with my curious gaze and see through the material of the shirt that they link themselves around his torso. 

"Like what you see?" A low throaty voice asks.

My eyes snap up and meet his cold black gaze. I don't hesitate, I snatch my knife out from under my pillow and in one swift move I'm on top off his chest with a knife to his throat. "Who are you?" I'm surprised at the aggressive tone of my voice but I push my surprise aside and press the knife a little harder when he doesn't speak.

He seems content to sit and be silent. He even has the audacity to lay each of his pale hands on my calves that are currently straddling his chest. I know this tactic. My trainer taught my class about it. It's the opponent trying to make me uncomfortable and quite frankly it's effect is working. His hands seem to be burning me. I feel as if he were to remove them there would a brand. No person should be this warm, I think to myself.  I start to ask again leaning forward a bit only to feel a sudden warmth seep through my pajama pants and coat my right calf. I sniff and smell the coppery scent of blood. Cautiously, going against all my instincts to keep my focus on this stranger, I peer over to my right, conscious of the boy beneath me, and see a small coating of blood on my bed sheets. The source of the blood is from the boy's side. I'm instantly off the boy, off the bed entirely and standing next to it on the floor.

"Shit," I whisper.

"Well I must say I'm surprised. You don't seem like the one to curse. Of course you also don't seem like one to pull a knife either. At least you didn't state the obvious like most would," there is an underlying arrogance to his voice. He is just laying there ignoring the fact that he is bleeding out on my mattress.

I shove my knife under my shirt and stick it under the band of my bra. He cocks a perfectly arched white eyebrow at me but I ignore it. I cross my room over to the door that connects to my bathroom and get my first-aid kit. I hurry back relieved and disappointed that he still remains. I start getting everything out when he speaks.

"Those won't help me. No mundane remedies will heal this wound." He doesn't even spare me a glance he just stares at the ceiling. His voice is dead, flat. Like he has just given up hope. And he says mundane with distaste.

I start getting prickly. This guy is starting to push my buttons, "Oh," I say scanning the labels of the medicines, "Then just what would you suggest. I'm all ears."

Both of his eyebrows raise at my tone, "Why do you care if I heal or not? You don't know me."

I sigh and put down the bottle I was currently reading, "True, but the faster I help you get better the faster you get the hell out of my home."  I spit the word home out like venom on my tongue. I hate this town.

At that he tilts his head to me. His bottomless eyes assessing me. I squirm much to my disliking and return to the bottles in front of me. "If you want to help me heal and get me out of your home why not just call for an ambulance?"

I scoff at his statement and roll my shoulders trying to rid myself of his heavy gaze. Still looking at the bottles I reply, "One: If you wanted immediate medical attention you wouldn't have climbed through my window." He starts to question how I knew but I just tilt my head in the direction of my open window that has a gentle morning breeze brushing the curtains.

He makes a begrudged impressed sound in the back of his throat, "Quite the observant one aren't you?"

A small sly smile plays on my lips, "Two," I continue, "You just said that no ordinary treatment will help you." At this I finally meet his stare, my dark brows furrowing as I try to piece together this mysterious boy.

"And three?" He asks.

"Three," I say standing up with rubbing alcohol in hand, "I still don't know you are." I reach the bleeding peculiar boy laying in my bed.

He smirks at my last statement. "Why do you want to know?" Self-importance laces his words.

I set the rubbing alcohol on my bedside table and take out my knife. His eyes widen but before he can utter a word I slice his shirt open. I gasp. It's not because of his well tone stomach but because of all the blood there is. Deep red blood, white tough skin, and strange black marking seem to blend into each other. His skin like a canvas and the tattoos like outlines and the blood like spilled paint. A masterpiece marred.

I can feel the fright written all over my face. Like a person with a pencil just scrawled FEAR across my face. I try to gather my bearings. Holding my hands in front of me and taking even breaths. Counting to ten like my mother taught me that night many years ago. When I'm pretty sure my voice won't fail me I speak. "Because no one just sneaks in my room, lays in my bed, bleeds all over  my sheets, makes me deal with their injuries and doesn't tell me their name."

I start to wipe at all the blood trying to locate the wound. When I do I pour the alcohol over it. He tenses but that is all. "You tell me your name and I'll tell you mine." He grinds out between clenched teeth.

I stop what I'm doing and stare into his eyes once again. They are so dark and so deep. Blacker then any dark cave and deeper then any ocean depth. They are so alluring. I could get lost in them and not find my way home. They look as if they hold great secrets and have experienced great pain. They also seem like they could wreak mass havoc. They frighten and excite me at the same time. It's intriguing. I realize I've been staring for awhile and he has to. I fight back a blush and focus on what's before me.  

I know I don't really need  to know his name but I want to. Though if I tell him my name there is know telling what he'll do with that plus the fact he knows where I live. He seems like the kind of person who could do some serious damage with such little information. Eventually my inner curiosity throws caution to the wind.

"My name is Eva Green." I say extending my hand.

He smirks once again and shakes my hand while saying, "Sebastian Morgenstern."

Finally a name.