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Three: Consciousness

Three: Consciousness

Hazel Dane

One word.

One syllable.

Four letters.

Hurt. I was hurt in all senses of the word. But, the first bit of it that was most evident to me at my wake of consciousness was physical. I felt a constant, piercing pain in my lower abdomen, nearly restricting my movement completely. It was almost as if I had been nailed to the bed, or completely impaled by a large wooden spike. Within that first bit of hurt were small splinters in the wood, little tributaries of pain that went shooting off in all directions from the initial wound. The next level of hurt that became known to me was mental, a feeling one might call confusion. I absorbed my surroundings, and at first glance everything seemed alright. But, once I had fully come to my senses, I soon realized that was not the case. This was not my bedroom, and it surely wasn't a place I had ever seen before. For some reason, I think this confusion pained me a bit more than my physical issues. The third and final level of hurt I experienced was once again mental, however it was much more severe. This, of course, was remembering. Remembering what had happened to me, remembering who had put me in this position; all of that was more painful than all the hurt I've ever suffered through combined.

What had happened to me?

I was shot.

Who had put me in this position?

Some asshole criminal.

My mind began to function properly, and I was able to answer those questions definitely. The only question I couldn't answer was the whereabouts of my current location.

Where was I?

The answer to that was blank in the question slot of my mind, and I couldn't seem to find a means of filling it.

I heard a bit of rustling from beyond the confines of my newfound "bedroom," and my body tensed.

Who was there?

Yet again, I found myself stumbling to answer an impossible question, though I'm sure it would be revealed in time, a very short amount of time to be exact.

Before I could think anything else, someone cracked the door open, and stepped inside. I couldn't identify the stranger, as it was too dark to see. For now, he was just a shadow to me, a blob of moving black matter. I could only tell the figure was a man from his silhouette. I could see the curve of his toned arms, and I could faintly make out his toned chest with slight rippling abs on his midriff. Although I couldn't see his face, I imagined he was beautiful.

He shifted over to one corner of the room, and I heard a click as the dim light in the room flicked on, making it quite clear who this mystery man was. For a lack of better words, he was that asshole criminal, the man that had shot me. And, to think, I'd just called him beautiful. Despite the fact that the lower parts of his face had been covered during the robbery, I could still identify him by his eyes. His sparkling brown eyes that glimmered even in the dimmest of lights. I hated to admit it, but him being near me was frightening. After all, he was a fugitive. Who knows what he was capable of. But, by he looks of my bandages, it seems as though he had helped me. Turns out there may be a touch of insanity in him as well. Perfect.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I figure I should probably start off by saying that," the man finally spoke up, his voice was calm and soothing. For a moment, I started to believe him. I quickly snapped myself out of that.

"I'm Zayn," he now gave himself a name, which was a bad move on his part. Once I got out of this place, I was reporting him to the authorities. I'm going to take all the information I can get.

"Hazel," I decided to speak up, though it came out as more of a whisper. However, Zayn seemed to understand.

"That's a beautiful name."

I was taken a bit aback by his compliment. I didn't think you could just shoot someone, and want to have a chat with them as if nothing had happened afterwards.

"Where are we?" I asked suddenly. It may have been the wrong time to ask such questions, but I needed to know.

"I can't say, love. But, I can say that you're safe here."

"What do you mean you can't tell me? Why am I even here in the first place?" I was getting a bit enraged now, and the burst of excitement had begun to hurt me, considering the condition I was in. I stopped in pain, and clutched my bandaged wound. Zayn rushed to me, placing his hand on top of mine. Why did he have to act so sweet? You're not supposed to like a criminal.

"Be careful, Hazel. You don't want to hurt yourself anymore."

"This wouldn't be a problem if it weren't for you."

" . . . I know, and I'm so sorry. In the heat of the moment, I just wasn't thinking."

"That's a terrible excuse for shooting someone," I narrowed my eyes at Zayn, giving him a death glare of sorts, "I could've died."

He remained silent, avoiding my eyes. Zayn seemed genuinely disturbed, looking nearly disgusted with the fact that he'd done such a thing. It was repulsive to watch such bullshit going on before me, though some part of me wanted to forgive him. Some part of me actually believed he was sorry. I hated that.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, Hazel."

Zayn's voice cracked a bit, almost as of he was about to cry. I figured even the finest of actors couldn't pull off a scene like that, so I decided to cut him some slack, no matter how small it might have been.

"I know, Zayn, I know."

[Cover to the side by @NotAnOriginalName. Thank you!]