Shielding the Beast (discontinued)

Eight | Wound

A/N:
I have edited grammar and punctuation, but for some reason I feel like Amber is slightly out of character in this chapter. So please help me out and tell me if you think she is or not.

Enjoy!

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The number of bodies left ripped and littered in the dirt is a mystery. The number of times of nearly choking up my own guts to keep the blood from entering my system in innumerable.

Gore sticks to my skin like dried caramel, crusted and scabby. A fresh, scarlet stream flows down between my eyes, over my lips, and drips off my chin-- produced from the cylinder shaped entry point of the bullet.

As the rage dies to a bitter simmer, the pain breaks through, like an earthquake shattering every bone in my head. Throbbing and pulsing with the anger of a demon scorned, cracking my very skull open.

I can feel the hole in my head, the absence of flesh and bone apparent. My skull and everything within it burns like the hottest place in Hell, worse than white fire in the Sahara.

The urge to scream out for the whole world to hear is pestering, the desire to strain my vocal cords beyond possible just so that a single person may hear my agony.

But these urges are disregarded, and my pain swallowed like a rotten piece of meat.

My eyes find Asher, their emerald state returned so that he may meet them with his own.

He wears a skin of red, blood smeared across his bare chest like a messily painted, yet flawless canvas. Whether the crimson solution came from his veins or those of the enemies' is unknown. Yet some feeling within me indicates that he is unscathed.

Dark blue jeans that hang on his hips, and with holes worn into the threads, stop me from inspecting him further.

His expression is one of smothered shock, attempting vainly to keep his grasp on composure.

Whether it was my movement or his that brings us together is unsure, but the trivial matter is quickly forgotten.

His still-clawed fingers gently grace my naked sides. His eyes are cold, vengeful... angry.

"I had to," my lungs inhale abruptly, my voice seeming to weaken, "He shot at you."

It's like his golden orbs shout sorrow at my words, and despite their sorrow a flash of resentment shows.

"They never shot at me, Ambie. They shot you."

His face begins to appear blurry in my vision, the perfection of my Lifeblood becoming harder to see.

As the thick crimson's flow increases to an overwhelming speed and the pain worsens in my skull only one thought can be willed to go through my mind.

I just want to see his face.

Through fading eyesight, a drop of water can barely be made out upon his cheek, the small thing reflecting light from the nearest torch.

A tear?

My hand grasps at the peak of his shoulder, half-assedly trying to keep my balance. His hold on my ribs tightens in response, me being grateful for the action.