𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄, divinity is a wretched fate.
Dreary Forks is a cramped town beneath a near constant overcast sky, enshrouded in evergreen.
Like every small town, Forks is rife with gossip. Most children's grandparents grandparents had b...
CHAPTER TWELVE ! ( xii. a penny for your thoughts )
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THE STERILE SMOG OF A HOSPITAL GRADE CLEANER, is an assault on his unprepared senses. At the back of his throat is a tickle, caused by the product that has doused the linoleum floors of his hospital room to ensure a standard of care that would be more than abhorrent to potential, festering infection—because that would be the last thing Zachary Todd needs. Underneath his nose is a light weight, irritating the underside of his nostrils as they twitch and scrunch acutely with the trickle of consciousness bleeding bit by bit into Zachary's psyche. It's a cannula, with a soft flow of assisted breath through his nose, and a similar one is tacked to the back of Zachary's hand, lounged limply at his side overtop of the scratchy teal sheets that are draped over him.
There's a muted ache in his jaw, numbed mostly by the pulse of pain relief through the IV nestled in the crook of his elbow. Blossoms of dark welts darken his chin to the side of his throat, peonies of sable against his jaw in horrid bruising where the bone underneath had been dislocated before deft hands crunched it into place in his unconsciousness. In his mouth, Zachary's tongue is like sandpaper, and heavy like lead as it sinks to the bottom and his eyes roll behind closed eyelids that flutter frantically in a wild attempt to stir fully. Stitches are bandaged with the wrap of ivory gauze around his head, flattening his hair at the crown and covering his hairline where the mousy locks are a tuft over its edge.
He has an arm cradled in another sling, his shoulder blade blackened with a fresh break with the impact that had bent his upper back awkwardly against the mirrored beam. The boy had unknowingly, narrowly escaped paralysis. A hoarse intake of breath and Zachary's tongue wets his chapped lips as he winces against the dull ache of his temple and there's cool fingertips brushing his own, dancing delicately along his knuckles. Zachary starts to peel open his eyes, blurry and blinded by horrible fluorescents before he's able to focus after a handful more moments on the beauty of an angel, situated worrisomely—stiff backed and wide eyed in the discomfort of a hospital chair at his bedside.
Rosy lips part as she chimes his name in a melodic voice and for a moment, Zachary thinks he might have succumbed to James' malice. Her other hand, the one that isn't so loosely tangled with his, reaches and she's grazing a fallen lock from where it's tumbled along the bandage wrapping Zachary's upper forehead and his frown starts to deepen softly in confusion. It's the monotonous, droning beep that plucks Zachary from his fantasy and into reality—Heaven wouldn't have such a noise. Deft, stone fingers overturn his wrist on the opposite side and Zachary hadn't noticed the doctor, with brilliant medallion eyes razor focused on the monitor on his other side and counting the thump of his pulse against his fingertips to ensure it was aligning with the information dancing across the screen.
Another patient moment, before Carlisle talks again with the same even, kind tone as he always does, "How are you feeling, Zachary?"
