Recommence ° Edward Cullen[Rewriting]

[019]

Chapter Nineteen | No Rest For The Wicked

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"Alex!"

It was unlike any injury she could ever recall. Even from the fragmented memories of a life she barely remembered, nothing had ever felt quite like this. Like an intense agony that pulsed with a cruel rhythm, each wave recurring more painful that the last. And every breath, every small movement was akin to rubbing salt in a gaping wound. A searing wound with a blade digging in deep every few seconds—and in her case, the blade was the bullet that remained in her chest, burrowing deeper and tearing through muscle as it did.

It was a. . . wondrous thing: the pain. Alex couldn't fathom so much torture from one small object, not when her spotty past had pointed to worse things. Because surely the experiments had more on a measly little bullet. Surely, the wounds should have been no more than a nasty callback. Surely, she should have been stronger. Surely, things should have gone differently. But they didn't. Or maybe this was what was meant to happen.

Maybe the physical pain was intended to be as crippling and the mental agony as destructive. For since the moment she had been shot, the corrupted presence in her mind—dormant since Montana—had come to life with a jolt of electricity much like a wire given a spark. It writhed with an attentiveness and determination that blurred her vision and initiated a pounding in her head for the creature was pushing and clawing at every open crevice in her mind. It wanted control. Demanded it. 

But Alex had naught to give. Not in her haze where she was barely there. Where her mind could barely focus as it was shredded mercilessly. Where her body was weak and failing from the wounds. Her grip on what little coherency was left was much like that of a death grip—a grip wherein her consciousness had tensed up, curling around her sliver of command in the situation like a predator guarding its kill.

Determination was in no way equal to strength, however. Control did not let her stay upright, the woman's breath escaping her in a rush as her diaphragm spasmed, her body colliding harshly with the cold, hard asphalt. 

In her head, a deep rumble echoed, drowning out near all sound save for the terrified, piercing screams that could not be quieted. And among those screams, Alex thought she could hear gunshots. Maybe. She didn't concern herself with the cries and resounding bangs—didn't bother trying to exit the heavy fog that had settled around her as bleary, dark eyes stared unblinkingly up at the dim, gray sky. 

It was brighter than she remembered. Less clear. More muddled and ambiguous. Alex only assumed the sky because what else could be above her when she could feel the rough ground beneath her? Little else, if nothing at all. And nothing else could incite such a light, weightless feeling even as she still felt the background hum of fatigue and agony. 

It was an odd, simultaneous feeling but Alex felt. . . good. It was good to be unaware. To not be so worried about what the next moment would bring. To not be concerned that her next breath could be her last or just the beginning of something much worse. But maybe. . . maybe good wasn't the word. Because her ignorance wasn't intentional, it wasn't planned. It wasn't her choice. And that made it all the worse, knowing she had no control over it. Especially now that—that she was indeed in danger.