My Funny Valyntine: Book One - The Pull

Chapter Four - Say It Isn't So

i.

Valyntine chokes on the water flowing up her nostrils, pooling in the back of her throat. Lying on her back, blinking through the rain falling onto her eyes, she coughs and sputters, turning her head to the side. The motion hurts, sending sharp jolts of pain through her neck and head. She tries sitting up, but her head, feeling more cumbersome than it should, refuses. The pressure throbs in seismic waves, muffling someone's words.

Suddenly, there are hands gripping under her armpits, trying to lift her. Not liking to be touched, Valyntine pushes the grasping hands away, choosing to sleep here for a while.

Someone is shouting from the end of a long tunnel. Hard to make out at first, the voice grows louder, clearer, "...need... ...have no time... ...need to wake up... ...have to hurry... ...to get moving... ...you away from here!"

"Wha-" Valyntine manages as she keeps pushing the hands away. "Lemme' lone."

"...to WAKE UP!" the tunnel voice yells again.

Reality and the realm of unconsciousness wrestle for supremacy. Somewhere between the two, Valyntine tries, once again, to sit up. The world tilts like a miser's scales trying to establish balance. Closing her arms around her head, bringing her knees up to her chest, she shivers in a tight, fetal ball. She doesn't want to see, to hear, to feel anything; she wants to sleep.

The hands under her arms, frustrated with her obstruction, yank her hard and fast to her feet. The sharp, violent motion sends shockwaves of pain rippling through Valyntine. When consciousness wanes once more, she finds herself moving, a clumsy half-walk, half-limp as someone flings her right arm over their shoulder, assisting her through rows of pipes and bursts of scalding steam.

Her head rocks with each clumsy step. When she goes forward, the pavement rushes up to her face before plummeting back down again. When her head rocks back, the rain pelts her face.

The cold black overtakes her.

ii.

A white-hot stinging ignites in Valyntine's cheek.

Eyes flashing open, darting around, she's unable to discern her surroundings through the disorientation and darkness. Squeezing her eyelids shut, her hand rises to her face, the burning of the slap is pushed away by a throbbing at the back of her head. Her hand, following the tingle in her cheek around to the base of her skull, stops when her fingers meet with something warm and sticky.

Keeping her eyes closed, her other available senses report she is now indoors; someone has propped her up on a rickety stool, leaning against the wall in a corner. Outside, echoes of the falling rain through metal drain pipes help to slow her breathing. Her thoughts form and fade, incomplete, jumbled. She wants to sleep again. Tired. So very tired.

"Do not pass out again," commands the stern voice of a woman. Valyntine's eyes shoot open, full and frightened. She recoils, realizing someone is sitting across from her in the darkness. Still dazed from being knocked unconscious, she's terrified to see someone sitting inches away. The shocked movement sends a fresh wave of pounding through her head.

She winces, sucking air between her teeth, reaching out for something, anything, to keep from falling off the stool. Her flailing, grasping hand finds the woman's forearm. She holds it tight, then falls to her knees and vomits coffee and bile into a nearby wastebasket.

Opening her eyes, slower this time, letting them grow accustomed to the low light, Valyntine sees the woman with skin the color of coffee with two creams, and dusk-colored eyes, sitting across from her. The woman's auburn hair, drenched from the rain, appears black, sticking to her face, neck, and shoulders in haphazard coils. The beauty of this stranger's features quiet Valyntine's colliding thoughts. After the worst of the pain passes, her breathing steadies.