wilderness | paul lahote

{18}

"Please wake up," he whispered. "I don't want to lose you, please."

"It's all my fault. It's all my fucking fault. I'm so sorry. Please wake up."

I took a deep breath in. Something warm shifted next to me, before it touched my arm. Slowly I opened my eyes.

I woke up in this weird dimly lit room. The smell of antiseptics filled the air. My nose stung from the scent.  And the beeping - the god awful beeping - felt like it was hammering on my head. My body was stiff, every bone, every muscle hurt.

The warmth touched my cheek now as I looked up to see Paul. His eyes red and tear soaked. His face tired, dark circles evident under his black eyes. I wanted to reach over. To touch him. But I couldn't. My hand was hooked to annoying wires, and I felt too weak.

"Paul," I whispered. I couldn't quite read his emotion. It was a mix of anger and sadness, and relief. He moved his hand away, instantly making my stomach flip by the lack of his warmth.

"Ariah," he said. His voice as tired as I'd imagined from the looks of him. "How are you feeling?" He asked quietly, before sitting down on an expensive looking leather chair next to the bed I was in.

I looked around the room now. Bookcases filled almost every wall. Pictures that looked like they'd been painted in the olden days covered the spaces where the cases didn't reach. It looked like someone's office. Yet I was seemingly in a hospital bed, hooked to machines. It didn't make sense to me. But what had in these past few days.

"I'm fine." I said, looking back at Paul. I moved my hand to touch his, that was resting on the side of the bed. But he pulled away at my touch. My heart stung at this small movement, and I couldn't pinpoint why.

"I'm going to get someone. I'll be right back." He said before getting up and leaving. I swallowed the lump in my throat, not wanting to cry again. Emotions were not my strongest quality, yet lately there had been a lot of them. And dealing with everything by myself had proven to be hard. 

I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself. But I couldn't. As soon as I closed my eyes, all I could see was red. The beeping stabbed through my skull. I was growing more and more frustrated by the second. A stray tear escaped down my cheek.

The door opened and someone walked in. A young man, presumably in his late 20s, early 30s. His hair blonde. His skin pale as snow. Resembling the skin of the woman in the forest. I shuddered at the flashbacks.

He looked like a model. His appearance unearthly beautiful. His eyes - an odd colour of topaz - looking at me, he smiled politely as he stopped next to my bed. Paul stepped in too, but stayed beside the door, his arms crossed tightly across his body. I craved his presence, his warmth. For him to be next to me.

I looked back at the pale man now. He thankfully unplugged the annoying machine and carefully removed the needle from my arm. It stung, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. 

"I'm Dr Carlisle Cullen," the man spoke now, his voice smooth as honey. I had recognized his name, from when I lived in Forks. He had been the most talked about doctor in town. From what I'd heard, he sure was as beautiful as everyone had said he was. I had never had the privilege to meet him though, until now. "I heard you're feeling okay." 

I nodded as I moved my arms now, without the wires and tubes connected to me. My muscles were sore. "You got quite lucky out there." 

"I guess I'm just a lucky girl then, that's twice in a row now." I heard him chuckle lightly.

His hands were cold. Much colder than Paul's had been, and even colder than my own. His icy fingers examined the cuts and bruises on my arms, I hissed whenever he had touched a fresher one. From the corner of my eye I could see Paul shift on his feet, as if he had contemplated walking over, but he didn't.