Black Eyed (Original)

Chapter Four- Black

A/N: Why, hello, my lovely, lovely readers!

So I just posted this book up yesterday and already I have gotten over 40 views, which is just so stupendously awesome you guys can't understand. Thank you so much.

I apologize for this chapter being so short. It was originally going to included within the next chapter, but it was insanely long - still is, actually. So, you'll probably get a nice, long chapter by the end of today. As always, thank you for reading!

        It's not the peaceful sleep that I was wanting and needing so dearly. My pain follows me into a dreamland where I am sitting at the old kitchen table with Brenton sitting opposite from my seat, talking without looking at me. A hazy film covers my sight, edges not being quite so defined, lights being larger than they actually are.

        I can't quite pay Brenton any attention because the kitchen is something it has never been in all of my existence at this house - clean. No plates are on the table and counters, and there are none in the sink. The ash tray is not overflowing with black dust, and the salt and pepper shakers are erect, not pouring their respective spice on the table.

        I reposition my chair a few inches backwards so I can see into living room, which is startling clean as well. Tom and Caroline are sitting in foldable chairs - Caroline's hips are humorously pouring out of the seat - that are across from a well dressed man and short haired woman seated in the recliners, all of whom are conversing amongst themselves. This is certainly a strange dream, as company is a rarity within this household. My surprise overpowers my pain for a few precious moments.

        The pounding in my head then becomes nicely complemented with sharp and inconsistent stabs that feel as if they are delivered by a wonderfully sharpened ice pick. I pinch my eyes in pain and rest my head in my hands. When a gasp escapes my clenched lips, Brenton finally pauses his words and I hear his movement.

        I feel warmth on my forearm from a hand. "Are you ok?" He gently whispers, which I am so grateful for. I squeak a 'no' in response.  His other hand grabs my other arm lightly and he pulls. I take the signal to stand.

        When I do, I feel as if I'm about to faint. I rest my head on his shoulder and he in turn supports my weight. My head is still in my hands and my eyes are still clenched, but I can feel him directing me through the living room. I feel the floor change from cold linoleum to a plush carpet beneath my feet. The conversation in progress dies.

        Brenton leans away from me with hands on my shoulders and says in words just barely above a whisper, "Headache. I'm taking her to her room." The conversation proceeds, but in muted respect. He directs me to the foyer and up the stairs. The stairs seem to go on endlessly, and with each step being an unforgiving wooden plank, my head bangs like a gong in rhythm to my stride. I whimper, and Brenton whispers in response, "Almost there."

        He directs me to the right: towards the bathroom. He opens the door then leaves me to look under the sink and in the drawers for medicine. The lights are turned on and the ice pick dedicates its time to trying to remove my eyes from their sockets. I turn the lights off with the back of my hand wearily; there is enough light coming from the bathroom's window for Brenton's search. I go to tap his shoulder, but something else catches my squinted eyes.

        I glance up to my reflection in the vanity's mirror and it takes me a few moments to realize what is so wrong with it: my green eyes have been replaced completely by black spheres.

        I disregard this with a small shake of my head, being logical and discounting it as me being in too much pain to properly digest my surroundings or it being a trick of my eye mistaking a shadow for an actual facial feature. Rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands, I turn back to Brenton, who is still rummaging around, and whisper hoarsely, "We don't have any. I used it all." He sighs then stands to direct me out of the bathroom and into my quarters.

        Once he opens the door, I remove myself from his shoulder and walk to my bed. I curl up on the quilt in a tight ball with my head on a pillow. I hear his footsteps then feel the quilt being curled around me. It's too hot to be under a blanket, but I don't try to remove it. I merely attempt to rest.

        "It'll be over soon, I promise," he says as I'm falling asleep. Somehow, though, I don't believe he was talking about my headache.

A/N: Thank you for reading!

I know it was short and I apologize, but the next chapter should be up by later today. I do hope it was satisfying, though. The song is (of course) by Ten years (Don't Fight It) and I believe it accurately describes the relationship between Brenton and Willow, now, at least..

It would be absolutly amazing if you could spare ten seconds to tell me what you thought of this chapter. Any grammatical issues or plot inconsistencies cannot be fixed unless I know I have them. And especially if you have any idea for the plot or if you are not liking a character, message me and I would be happy to reply.