WitchBite

Migraine

 "Fuck! What do we do?" Lyra's voice echoed through drowsy ears, I could hear the heavy, frantic pacing of footsteps on hardwood floors.

"We can't enter the sigils... uh..."

"Come on, Simon. Think. He's bleeding out."

"I know! Quick, see what belts you can grab from the corpses. Maybe we can hook him some how." There was a lot of shuffling. My body felt heavy. Blurred images, lights, and sensations shifted through my acknowledgement like the flitting of fishes beneath the surface of a moon-cast lake. I was incredibly tired, no matter how hard I struggled; consciousness would continue to fight and slip through my fingers.

It felt like minutes would bleed into hours, but experience told me that it was unlikely to have even been more than few seconds. The floor was getting colder, that much I could notice. Something was swatting me. Like a gentle slap, and eventually I felt myself just barely beginning to move along the floor.

"What the holy fuck are you doing!?" I heard a female voice, angry, yet unsure, shout. I couldn't hear the reply however. It was slowly being muffled, or blotted out somehow. I was getting weaker, had I lost that much blood?

As the adrenaline had left my body a fair time ago, I suppose I had nothing to keep pushing me forward.

I could taste metal on my tongue, and down my throat. The urge to splutter and cough, crossed my mind somewhat, but I found it hard to muster up the effort. I wasn't myself, I was gripping and pulling something closer to my mouth, my lips. Something warm. I was hungry or thirsty, it was an amalgamation of both and it was like an anchor sunk and battered the core of my stomach.  

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 My head pounded. Screeched on the underside of my ears, and I clutched the sides of my head, with a dry, and hoarse, groan that clawed at the inside of my dehydrated throat. My eyes squeaked open only for me to squeeze them as tight as I possible could; the instant whatever horrifying light that was violently assaulted my eyes with it's brightness. As if I had looked at the sun in the height of summer.

Questions of where I was rushed briefly into my mind, as I rolled off the bed I apparently lay in. The coolness of the soft wood beneath my bare feet provided some comfort as I reached with an outstretched arm. A dull thud spiked my forearm as it smacked into what I presume to be a side table.

My body began to shiver as I became aware of how cold I was. It grumbled when I realised how hungry I was, and my chest tugged heavily in the direction of the floor, as if to pull me to its core, when the memory of what had transpired seeped its way back into my thoughts, causing my hands to tremble uncontrollably as if the weight of the knife still lay clutched beneath my fingers.

I clenched my fists. Gritting my teeth, and taking a solemn breath; I slowly, and shakily, stood up.

Deep breaths. Deep Breaths.

Ever so carefully, I peeked my eyes open, raising my arm up to shield my vision from the light that was unnecessarily bright. Which only confused me further when looking upon my surroundings. I was in a bedroom, not mine. A simple room that didn't hold much furniture. A double bed with tossed, plain, sheets. A table on the side with a book, and a chair beside that. A small rug held the centre of the room, also plain in colour. For a moment I had considered the possibility that I had gone colour blind, as nothing held any. Even the circular knob of the door had been painted a pale grey, to match the wood of its door.

My eyes reached for a glass jug of water that sat on the table, only for it to crack and smash the moment my fingers graced its surface. I withdrew my hand immediately, squinting my eyes as I reached for the quilt to mop up the rapidly puddling water.