FOUR

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The migraine is what came first, like a hammer pounding musical symphonies against my skull trying to rattle my brain around

Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.

The migraine is what came first, like a hammer pounding musical symphonies against my skull trying to rattle my brain around. Then came the voices, the hushed indistinct murmurs which I struggled to make out due to an incessant beeping beside me. "You can't be here—"

I heard though the voice didn't sound angry, but worried and urgent.

"I just needed to make sure she was okay." I felt my heart stumble. This man's voice made the marrow of my bones tingle and heat fill my face and yet he sounded so sad.

I wanted nothing more than to hold him until it all went away. To pull this grief from his bones, from his soul.

When something cold and smooth ran against my skin, I could no longer feign sleep. My eyelids, felt as if they had been peeled and rubbed raw as I forced them open, allowing the intense achromatic light to sweep away the darkness I had become accustomed.

You're dead, it was the first thought that appeared in my head as I witnessed a man standing above me. His golden eyes watching my every move. He was all sharp lines, alabaster skin and crisp bronze hair which was illuminated by the white light surrounding us. He was more than beautiful. It was as if God himself had taken extra time to create this specific specimen, and I had no doubt that a single smile from him would bring the world to its knees. Undoubtedly he was the angel who would take me to either heaven or hell. Maybe he was the one who judged and passed my sentencing. I took a heavy breath as my vision struggled to adjust. His pristine features wavering in and out of focus.

His eyes don't move from mine and for the first time I notice the two lines formed between his brows. Confusion didn't fit well on his exquisitely sculpted face and I fought the urge to smooth them out with my thumb. "Who are you?" He whispers in his raspy, melodic voice and the heart monitor once again quickens.

Anastasia Gilmore, but everybody calls me Ana.

My mouth attempts to open, words fully formed in my throat, but my jaw was too heavy to speak.

I recalled how I had recited this introduction at the age of six with nothing but a sharp attitude, a bright smile, and a toss of my hair over my shoulder.

EPHEMERAL DUSK | Emmett CullenWhere stories live. Discover now