Death is immortality.
Death is your second chance.
Velian Terrashine belongs to a classless society of equality, art and democracy; a land full of creativity and mindfulness. It is in that perfect political system that one wrong movement, one carele...
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THROUGH THE HALF-OPEN window, the sun let its soft shafts of brightness swirl untethered in the as white as the moonlight room. Dancing in the air, the scent of death, sickness and decay filled my nostrils. Hostage to that stench, I wondered if I'd been brought to a place of wellness and recovery or some forgotten by the world cemetery.
My lips were dry and chapped and the realization of what had happened was slowly but steadily sneaking in my mind. My eyelids felt heavy and it was an effort to keep my eyes open for more than a second. Fear. Fear that the doctor, the physicians or whoever was in that infirmary had discovered what my true eye-color was while darkness had spread its coarse blanket over me, leaving me unconscious and unable to defend myself.
Looking underneath the white bedsheet that covered most of my body, I came across the sight of a cast having been placed all over my right leg, which I couldn't move or even dare to stretch. A chill crept into my bones as I imagined the severity of the injury, the time it would take for me to fully recover.
And silence. Only the fading sound of the clock that was hung on the wall was echoing through the room, reminding me of every second that was passing away from my mortal hands. That infirmary room and that cast on my leg was the price I'd pay for being talentless and unprepared, both at the same time. Examining the empty room, my mind and my thoughts felt like they didn't belong to me. I was here but I wasn't. I was flying above everyone and everything, observing the room from a distance. The anesthetic, I thought to myself and let the numbness be spread across my body again.
"Hello, Velian," the voice of a young woman broke the everlasting silence, and I angled my head to the side to face her. My failing eyesight prevented me from observing her better, but I figured from her pale blue clothes that she must be a nurse.
Her blue eyes, warm as a cloudless sky and calm like the ocean on a summer day, scanned over at me, surveying every inch of my body. I held her gaze but didn't speak, still not wanting to face the reality of what had happened. The impending doom was here, shattering not only my heart but my body as well, swallowing me alive, ripping me apart piece by piece.
Hunger gnawed at me combined with a feeling of desperation I tried not to dwell on for long. How many hours had I been unconscious? I remembered the fall and the panic that had crowded not only my heart, but the ballroom, as well. I remembered strong hands holding me and me refusing to open my eyes. I remembered hoping that everything was a wild nightmare I would soon wake up from. I remembered, instead, being carried to the infirmary with my parents by my side, my mother holding my hand and whispering words of encouragement and courage all the time. And then . . . nothing.
Shaking my head, I focused my stare on the nurse and something in my chest strained at the unspoken pity that lingered in her eyes as she made sure that my leg was outstretched and immobilized—pity and something that seemed like camouflaged fear.
"You'll have to take your medicines before pain makes its appearance again. I'll let your parents know that you're awake," she said with a soothing voice as she placed a bottle of pills on the also white nightstand and walked out of the room quickly, like her life depended on it.
