~ Breathe ~

{Prologue}

A small girl, no older than seven was sitting in the hospital waiting room, her face filled with fear and confusion. The woman beside her had a sour expression on her face.

"We're here because of you, so don't start complaining." She scowled.

"But it hurts Aunt Rosey." The girl looked up at the woman hopefully.

"Don't call me 'Rosey.' You are to call me Aunt Primrose. Understand?"

The girl nodded submissively.

"When's Heath getting here?" She asked once again.

"He's not coming."

"Why not?"

"Don't ask questions, Christella."

"Pryce, Christella." The nurse called. The red headed girl and her aunt stood up and followed the nurse.

After hours of assessment, the girl and her aunt left the hospital very late at night, well past midnight, with the new news that Christella was suffering with a mild case of Anderson's Syndrome.

"Wait. Aunt Primrose, when are we going to get medicine to stop my hands and feet hurting?"

"Why would I waste our money on you?"

THREE YEARS LATER

"It hurts." Christella sat there, collapsed onto the floor. Heath, Christella's brother was trying it comfort his younger sister but it was failing.

"How bad is it?" Heath asked Christella, concern etched upon his face.

"Really bad."

"Worse than it's ever been?"

Christella nodded. After what felt like hours of excruciating pain, the pain subsided, allowing her to lie flat on her back.

Collecting herself, she sat up next to her older brother, resting her head on his shoulder. She looked to the picture of her late parents and sighed.

Her parents had been murdered when she was only a few months old in what started as a home robbery. The two children had only survived as they were hidden in a small cupboard. Christella often felt responsible for her parents death, even now, at the tender age of ten. After being orphaned, Heath and Christella had been sent to live with their only living relatives, the Damien's.

Primrose Damien (nee Elena) was Heath and Christella's mother's sister, although she never spoke about her, and on the rare occasion that her name would be mentioned, she did not speak kindly of her.

Heath was roughly 11 months older than Christella, wore black rimmed glasses that cycled between round and rectangular and had mousy brown hair that stood up in multiple different places, never tidy. Whether that was due to the fact the the boy didn't try to tame his hair, or if his hair actually wouldn't cooperate, they didn't know.

Something the siblings shared in common was their piercing green eyes. Almost electric green in appearance, they certainly were teased quite often for their unique looks, but each of them tried to brush it off.

"Uncle Vincent, Christella needs medication for her Anderson's. The pain thing in her hands and feet and stuff is happening heaps and it's getting worse." Heath voiced his concerns to his uncle that night whilst washing up the dishes.

"I see. Well, does she have money? Do you have money?" Vincent asked, lifting his eyes from his newspaper.

"No, but I was hoping you could maybe get her some?"

"Hmmph! Me, get her the expensive medication?! No way!"

"Maybe if we did a few more jobs around here — maybe you could pay us? And then we could buy the medication with that money."

"Not a chance."

"Don't you care about her wellbeing?" Heath's temper was rising by the minute.

"Not really, no."

"You're supposed to take care of us! You're supposed to take care of her!"

"Not if you don't deserve it. Now go back to your room, and I don't want to see your face for the rest of the night!"

Heath stormed off, fuming angrily.