Lost Skeletons ↠ Rosalie Hale [2] ✓

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He's running.

Shoes screeching on marble floors as he turns around a wide corner. He slips slightly, landing on his side but he's quick to scoop himself up again.

Dark hair falls into his eyes, tickling his pupils. He doesn't bother shoving the hair away, just continues to run farther and farther down the hall.

He can hear her. Her shoes echoing behind him as if she knows that she'll catch him eventually.

It's a game of cat and mouse, and she's been skilled in the art of catching mice for hundreds of years.

Even with this knowledge, he still runs.

His heart hurts it's pumping so wildly. He's choking now, his body not prepared for the wide range he's trying to cover at an inhumane speed. His lungs gasp, trying to intake air as he tries to rip a door open.

The lock buckles, and he's left at the end of a hallway with no where to turn. He slinks against the door, back against hard glossy wood. He throws up a bit in his mouth, his legs tingle, and his hair is still tickling his eyes.

"You shouldn't run," Her voice says, soft as silk. "Bad things only happen when you run."

Tears fall down his face, his body shaking, "Please, don't do this,"

"Oh enough of that," She smiles, wicked and demented. "You'll only feel it for a second. After that, you'll feel nothing at all."

Somehow the thought of never being able to feel anything makes everything inside of Beau throb more painfully. He traces the tattoo on his arm, cursing out the thoughts of any new beginnings.

He's lost in the shadows now, and still, she found him.

"You're going to be okay Jamison," She breathes, using his nickname.

It's not meant for her use, and she knows it. She's still trying to take away everything he's ever called his own and making it hers.

His name, his interests, his heart, and now his life.

She leans forward, and he wishes he could melt into the door behind him. The handle digs into his back, and it's almost as painful at the teeth digging into his artery.

So much feeling all at once, and he screams.

She holds him against her like a mother cradling their newborn child. She's whispering something to him, but he has no way of translating her words.

All that feeling, and then there's nothing.

In those moments, the last moments of being human, he thinks:

I'm Beau, I'm Beau, I'm Beau, I'm Beau.

And his eyes close.