Of The Unknown

Chapter 1

Welcome back everyone! It's been a little over a week since my last update but school has been complete hell, plus the thing I was using to write this on was acting up and I couldn't fix it for the life of me!

This chapter is delivered by a different perspective. Like I mentioned in my author's note before, this is a MerDer story. I am NOT Shonda Rhimes. So take it into consideration while reading.

I'm hopeful this will answer some plot holes I left in the prologue. Obviously not all as I'd have no more story to tell. I'm pretty sure I covered all that needed to be said but granted I was rushing to get this posted.

Okay, enough of my rambling you all most likely don't care about! On with the chapter!

Fuck. The immediate thought swerving through her brain in that moment. Her cheek was suction cupped to the sheets. They prickled her skin and chafed. Her head wasn't resting tranquilly over a pillow neither. Near the same time she's come to the conclusion there's virtually no blanket, sheets, or even a comforter eclipsing her backside; naked backside. A light drizzle taps against the windows of the bedroom. It doesn't surprise her as for the last week or so the earth has seemed to have been crying every chance it obtained. Perhaps it's a sign. An indication of sorrow she's departing from the security of her home.

Maybe the sky is crying for her.

Either way, it doesn't dissipate that she's feels like a fish out of water lying on a burning skillet. Her underside pressed to the mattress is blustering with heat while her bare tush is a popsicle at a skating rink. Her eyes open to slivers and she catches the tiniest gander of a man in her bed. Crap. The term seemed to fit the occasion appropriately indeed.

Not that this sort of occurrence is new for her. She can't lie when it comes to wild excursions she has no business taking part in. She's always particularly had this knack for getting a little too tipsy in bars before bringing home inappropriate men she knows virtually nothing about. There are specific times she's done so without even remember their name the next morning. Partially she blames it on her lack of parenting as a child. The other part of her, the one she ignores and tries her damn hardest to bury away, insists it's because of him.

Meredith Grey does not pine over men. She doesn't fret about their existence and wallow for an eternity over a breakup. Not that she's invested very much of her time into the dating scene these days. Albeit, a tiny piece of her can't deny she still long's to see him just one more time. Even if it were for no more than a moment and she only caught the back of his raven curls. It would be something. Something is better than nothing.

Anything would constitute as something better than what she's received. Which is in fact nothing at all. Not that she can blatantly sit and complain about it. This is the route she chose. Meredith chose this as her way of life. She ran. Running much farther than anticipated no doubt.

Meredith's gut roils at the prominent image of the guy she must've drunkenly brought home the evening before shifting around adjacent to her lithe frame. She'd promised herself on every whim there'd be not a single 'pick me up' for her last night in New York. Albeit, her blood seems to crave the liquid poison known as tequila. That damn concoction seems to disrupt her sober thought process and shift everything to something somewhat porny and glittery. Meredith hadn't been thinking straight. Perhaps she could consider this the last hoorah before leaving town. She's searching for a new start and this would be the last time anything of the sort would occur, right?

Her palms push into the mattress, using her lanky arms as a product of leverage to adjust her taut figure. First her cheek finds freedom from the sheets, cool air whooshing against moist skin. Meredith smacks her lips; once, twice, even three times. Her cavern has the familiar taste of worn alcohol and bar nuts. This morning is no different than all the ones she'd indulged on prior. It's a deja-vu for her brain. Her left hand pushes through her crumpled tendrils, her fingers halting to a stop along the way which indicates her tresses may or may not resemble a tornado bird's nest. Something else she's quite familiar with.