Waking

Waiting

Walls.

That was all there were.

Milky white walls looking down at him.

Closing around him.

Standing there, an everlasting factor in the room.

Just walls. Nothing else.

Nothing else. Other than Frank and the small drops of blood, coloring the white floor red.

Plop!

Plop!

Plop!

That was the sound of Frank slowly dying. The sound of Frank's veins being emptied for blood.

That was the only sound in the room, together with the wheezing sound of his breath, as he fought against the magic. The magic that wanted him to give up. To stop breathing, to lay still, to give up. Waiting for him to break.

He remembered how he had broken his grandma's crockery after he found out his mom was death. How he had waited for the satisfying sound of it breaking into million pieces. How he had enjoyed destroying his victim.

The magic was like that. Pulsing around him, waiting to hear the sound. The sound of him breaking.

Frank was waiting too. For the magic to break. For a sign of life. For something to change.

He didn't know how long he had been in this empty cold room.

All he knew was that he couldn't move, the magic was preventing him for it, and the only thing he could feel was his fingertips aching for the cold and the warm blood spilling down his leg.

Once in awhile his stomach would make a roaring sound, demanding to be feed. But no food came.

His throat was starting to feel sore, his head was aching a bit, as if he just had made a huge math assignment.

And nobody came.

Silence was laying over the room as a kind of blanket. Making his eyelids feel heavy, and his head heavier. Trying to resist, he ultimately failed like Percy at english exams.

He wasn't even sure how they had transported him to this room. It was like he consciousness was flooding away, together with his memories, and the awareness of who he is.

His eyes dropped a for what felt like a second, and when he opened them, his mind felt blank.

First thing first, he thought, he needed to know what was going on. Okay, so he--everything was blank. He didn't know one thing. Not. One. Fricking. Thing. Until one memory--or actually one word came to him:

Hazel, he though in a daze. He knew who she was or is. Was she dead or alive? He wasn't sure. He remembered her caring smile, and her flying brown curls in the wind. How her golden eyes shone with such a lust to live.

Gods, he loved her.

But where was she? He tried to look around but another thought came to him--shock and despair: she was a traitor.

He worked for Chaos.

She stayed for the Gods.

Great. Now, what about his name?

Was it with A? B? C? F? Z?

Arion.

The realization came to him like a slap. Hard and cold, Arion stumbled to his feet--the deja vu of the word feeling somehow off. As if it wasn't directed at him.