33.
I absolutely despise the smell of hospitals. That, and the overwhelming chill that blankets one’s body while being paraded through the glaringly white hallways in an uncomfortable stretcher.
The dominating scent of antiseptic, paired with the sterile stench of rubbing alcohol hits my nostrils, making them burn.
I hear the wheezing sound of a stretcher’s wheels against tile as I’m constantly being rushed forward.
My eyelids feel heavy; my lashes are crusted either with dried tears or blood, I can’t be sure.
My neck feels stiff, immobile, like it’s being held in place by something firm yet soft.
I hear voices around me, most of which are familiar. I can’t understand what all is being said, though, which irks me a little.
“…looks like she’s in pain.”
“Is her breathing steady?”
“Why the fuck are you pushing it…”
“The doctor said he’ll…”
I try to make a sound, but my mouth feels sock-dry. I try to swallow, but end up wincing against the sharp pain in my throat instead.
“I think she just moved,” someone says. Not just someone, but… Dorran.
I ignore the pull-like pain in my lids and force open my eyes, meeting the bright blue ones I love so much.
His face is sweaty; his expression is pinched with one of worry. He sighs when I slowly blink up at him, then whispers, “ Cigs, baby …” before leaning in and pressing a feather-light kiss on my forehead.
I desperately grab the stretcher’s sidebars in order to hoist myself up, but a mind-numbing wave of pain sears through the back of my skull, rendering me motionless. The hallway spins around me, the ceiling lights swirling at sickening angles.
A warm, calloused hand twines itself with mine, but before I can look at its owner, my vision turns hazy, and I once again fall into the dark, heavy spiral of unconsciousness.