Strong For Too Long Trilogy ✔️

02. They Call Me "Candidate Eleven"

CHAPTER 2: They Call Me "Candidate Eleven"

I'm back again, my lovely readers. Now, I understand confusion and anger may be swirling in your bubbled air heads right now. I died. Me, the character of this wildly insane story. I died in just the first book of my life, a plot twist of the century-surely?

I told you to stick to the hip when we first arrived. My life consisted of resounding roars, swirling seas and thundering tornados wasn't even the half of it. Applying to an academy of highly critiqued intelligence agents and trained killers was one of my first mistakes.

That's a lie.

It was my second mistake.

My first was not recognising my past for what it was.

History was repeating itself and I didn't even know it.

In pure reality, Aaron Westlake did do something to my heart.

He was passionate and daunting and protective whilst being humorously possessive. In that hospital room, I believed I was going to be alright, which is why I hadn't anticipated what was going to happen next and why my life didn't flash before my eyes when my heart monitor stopped.

I didn't see anything, I didn't feel anything and nothing made sense. I felt like I was contorted in a black room, I always thought my ending would venture into a white room, in the heavens, not darkness.

We're only a third into my documentary, into my story and when I say my story was the most condensed, longest roller coaster I have ever been on, I truly do mean it, my lovely dauntless readers. That erudite functionality I told you about...it's what scarred my life to ruins and stuck me in a box of the unknown. In a container like an object of a toy being put away and tamed in the darkest of methods.

Then, life itself, gave me the shittiest of instructions.

*****

I felt the cold-blooded feeling of death breathing down my throat, taunting me with his own dead air that filtered my lungs and crushed my windpipe with a different kind of air. One that strangles. One that ticks and taunts me to the point where even the oxygenated blood running towards my heart and the deadly kind swivelling through my brain cells, bursting them from the seams.

It was ironic, death got to breathe, but I didn't.

My body felt immobilised.

Weightless in the cold air that I inwardly shivered against. Feeling as though my brain was pulled out of my eye-sockets and stitched back in a different way. I felt like a corpse against a silver platinum table with my chest cut open and my organs exposed.

Yet I wasn't unclothed.

I wasn't being inspected.

My body wasn't touched.

My mind however, was as scrambled as the subatomic particles shake in condensed formations and non-concentric circles, everything felt so imbalanced against my thoughts, my feelings, my emotions. I should be mobile and screaming tambourines against my lungs.

I felt fogged in a blurry mist and the dark weakness of my dying, mangled body.

I was dying.

I got shot after all.

Why are my thoughts still wondering?