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Taylor's Time

Okay, Taylor.

This little piece?

It is VERY cool and VERY creepy and brings up SO MANY questions!

Now I want more!

This is an order from the Admiral, Taylor: WRITE MORE!

- Kendra


Part One:

The Boy


It was all I could smell. It was thick. It was warm. It was gushing.


It was all I could feel. It was throbbing. It was sharp. It was excruciating. My thigh was slashed, the bone exposed, the fabric of my jeans soaked in blood. The frigid night air left me shivering. I was alone, bleeding out in the gutter as if I were a piece of trash.

I'd always known I'd go this way. Unloved. Unwanted. No family or friends. I thought about my life; about my years in the foster care system and the Hell it put me through. I always found it funny that it was called foster Care, as no one ever really seemed to care about me or about who I'd end up with. Pretty misleading if you ask me.

A figure appeared, tall and dark, eyes glistening in the dim light. He approached me carefully, as if I were a frightened deer that might bolt. He crouched beside me, under the flickering street light, and looked at me. His hair, black with a hint of blue, curled past his ears. It looked soft and thick, and I had a sudden urge to run my fingers through it. But I was too weak to move. I was dying.

The boy knelt down and examined my wounds, gently touching the blood soaked patch on my jeans. His fingers lingered on the gash above my knee. As he drew closer, I noticed the strangeness of his eyes. They were a beautiful shade of golden amber, and they were mesmerizing. They held me like a mother would hold her child, gently, lovingly.

He dug into his jacket pockett and pulled out a small knife. The handle was beautifully crafted. He opened his free hand and held the blade to his palm. Then, expressionlessly, the boy slit his skin and immediately placed the bleeding wound to his lips. His cheeks swelled. When he removed his hand from his mouth, I saw that the cut had healed and was replaced by a small puckered scar. The boy leaned down, his cheeks filled with his own blood, and pressed his lips against the gash on my leg, his hands gently gripping the torn fabric of my jeans. A calm came over me as new blood, his blood, flowed into my veins. My strength returned, little by little. And the pain, the pain that crippled my body, receeded, as waves on the ocean. The boy's lips, warm and firm, lifted off my skin. He rose up and used his sleeve to wipe away the blood that trickled down his jawline.

I closed my eyes, laying my cheek against the wet asphalt as I felt my wound heal and close. This wasn't real. It couldn't be real. This boy had to be a dream, a hallucination that came with death. I felt arms wrap around me and lift me off the ground.

I awoke in a bed that wasn't mine. The room was dark except for a dull puddle of early morning that flooded in through a window. A pair of light grey sweats lay neatly folded at the end of the bed. I slid out from under the blankets and took off my bloody clothes. I felt at my leg, frightened by the lumpy new scar that had formed on my skin. With a jolt, my brain recalled the events of last night; the boy cutting his hand, holding the wound to his mouth, then bending down. I shuddered at the memory, at the clarity of it. I could still feel the boy’s lips pressed against my leg, the warmth of his blood mingling into my own. I shuddered again. This wasn't a dream. The boy was real. And he had definitely saved me.

Once dressed in the sweats, I searched for him. Standing in the doorway, I peered down the hall. The wall closest to me was lined with photographs. Family photographs. I padded slowly down the hallway, looking at the photos.

What better way to learn about the strange boy who rescued me?

In one of the photos, a woman sat smiling on a sofa, holding a baby in her lap while two older boys sat on either side of her, leaning towards the dark haired infant. In another, a toddler with amber eyes snuggled against his mother's chest as she sat in a rocking chair, the same two boys from the first photo sat on the floor in front of her.

As I walked down the hall, taking in the images of smiling children, I saw that the two other boys looked nothing like their sibling. They had light blonde hair and dark green eyes, like their mother. The boy that saved me, looked so out of place from the rest of his family, with his long black hair and bright amber eyes. Despite this, the family of four seemed happy and carefree until the boys reached their teen years.

In those photos, the older boys looked rigid, envious as they stood with their mother and brother at sporting events, camping trips and family gatherings. As the boys grew older with each photo, their anger became more obvious, gazes dark as they stared into the camera. This wasn't just a bad case of sibling rivalry. This was pure jealousy. Maybe even hatred.

Their mother seemed oblivious, standing with her youngest son more often than not. She always had an arm around him, always held him close as if keeping him out of the reach of an invisible foe.

A soft noise from behind me caught my attention. I turned and saw the boy leaning against a doorway that led into a brightly lit kitchen, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets. His presence was so strange and unexpected that I was at a loss for words. I just stood there, staring at him, at his hair falling over his face in waves, at his dark clothing bringing out the beauty of his eyes, at the loose chains hanging from the loops of his jeans. I gestured to a photo.

"L-lovely family." I stammered.

The boy looked to where I'd gestured, a picture of him at age eight or nine, skinny arms wrapped around his mother. His expression in the photo was joyful, but his expression now was mournful. His eyes became teary. Immediately, I felt guilty for drawing his attention to it.

"I'm sorry." I said, quickly.

He blinked and looked at me, saying nothing. I wondered why such a happy childhood memory provoked such a sadness in him. Even though this boy was still just a stranger to me, I wanted to say something that would comfort him. But I didn't have the words to try. Instead, I looked through his hair, into his eyes.

"You saved my life."

He looked down for a moment, then back up again, and his mouth curved into a half smile.

"I couldn't just let you die."

His voice was soft. Just like his lips. He took his hand from his pocket and used his lengthy fingers to push his hair away from his eyes. For the first time since we'd met, I could see his face, really see it as I hadn't before. He was beautiful, tanned and slender with high cheekbones, a smooth jawline and dimples that came with a shy smile. He looked to be my age now, maybe seventeen. Too young to be living on his own. His mother, I assumed, was, dead or living somewhere far from here, considering how close they looked in the photos next to me.

"I'm sorry," the boy said, straightening his posture. "I'm being rude. My name is Ember."

He held out his hand. Just as I reached for it, I heard a deafening blast.

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