Her head was spinning, her back was aching, her lungs felt like they were on fire. She tried to take a deep breath, but she found her body forcing her to stop as fluid filled her lungs. Her eyes bugged open, and she cough a loud obnoxious cough that rang through the empty apartment. Rose's head swiveled from side to side, pale red hair swinging over her shoulders and catching slightly on the odd marbled wall. She looked around, trying to find something, anything she could use to figure out where the hell she was.
Blue eyes latched onto a window pane.
It looked like she was laying in bed, but how had she gotten there. Her eyes wandered over the rest of the room. She saw a massive painting, a family of four, two little girls, a man and a woman. For a moment she simply stared at the painting, her eyes trying to focus on the faces to no avail. After a while she gave up, her shoulders weakly moving as she tried to turn her head further.
Her eyes wandered further over the room, across a dresser, then a small cabinet, then towards a figure laying on the bed. She stared at it for a few moments, her lips thinning as her eyes latched onto the figure that lay there. It was the only thing in the room she recognize, oddly enough.
“You look like death.” Rose said out loud, startled to see the figure move its lips.
Suddenly a realization dawned on her. The figure was a reflection, a mirror image. She searched for a second, then realized she had been looking at a huge standing mirror that covered the closet doors at the far end of the room. The reflection she was looking at was herself, tired, worn, and looking as though she was standing at deaths door.
Her skin was pale, more pale than before. The veins in her skin had turned an inky black, her eyes were filled with red, and her hair had lost all luster and sheen. Beads of sweat dotted her brow and sunk into her clothing, though she seemed to have rid herself of most of that. Her lips were an odd blue color and the tips of her ear were a strange red. A small trickle of blood escaped her mouth, and it felt as though every single inch of her was aching in pain.
As she watched herself, observed her weak and frail form within the reflection of the mirror, she had only one question.
How had she gotten here?
She didn't remember going to bed. She didn't remember standing. In fact the last thing that she remembered was collapsing on the bathroom floor while waiting for the doctor. Had he come? Had he made his appearance and given her his diagnosis?
Frantically her eyes searched the room. She looked for a prescription, a note, anything that would indicate to her that the doctor had been present, that she would be better and wouldn’t have to suffer any more than she already was. Yet as she looked, as her eyes searched in absolute desperation, she found no sign of anyone or anything having been there, she could not even find her own clothes that she knew she had been wearing.
A vivid memory of blood and spittle pushed into her mind, and her lips turned into a frown as she tried to remember getting into the bed.
Nothing came to her, only confusion.
It seemed impossible, confusing.
What was going on? Had she crawled and forgotten? Had she walked and hit her head? Weakly, as though knocking at deaths door she reached up and gently began to feel at her forehead. She pressed and touched, searching for pain. All she found was sweat.
Where was the doctor? How had she gotten to bed? What was wrong with her?
Those three questions plagued Rose's mind, pushed and prodded at her. She tried to figure it all out. She didn't care anymore where the disease had come from, she didn't care anymore why she had it, all she wanted was for it to go away. Her eyes wandered once again, this time not around the room, but towards the nightstand. There she found what she was looking for, a small remote device. A small gasp escaped her lips, and slowly she reached for it.
It felt as though her entire body was stretching. Lethargically she managed to push herself, her arm shifting, its black veins slightly moving, her fingers skeletal wrapping around the communicator and finally pulling it towards herself. A sigh escaped her lips, desperation fleeing from her body as her life slowly left her.
Who would she call?
Her Parents were gone.
Lily was too far away.
She had no other family.
The Sith?
Rose had not gone back to the Sith, not after her failure. She still remembered that, it was hard to forget. She knew that if she called Vrag, if she called the Sith...things might get worse before they got better. Yet right now, in this moment, they were her only hope. Her sister was gone, dealing with business and growing a corporation into something great. Her parents had abandoned her, whether for her safety, or for their own.
The truth was, Rose had no one else.
At least no one else that she knew of.
She could not have known who got her into this bed, she could not have known that that sense of paranoia of someone watching her was indeed true. Had she known it perhaps she would not have dialed the communicator. Had she known she would perhaps not have given up so easily, but Rose didn't know, and so slowly, she pressed the keys and called those whom she feared most.
Blue eyes latched onto a window pane.
It looked like she was laying in bed, but how had she gotten there. Her eyes wandered over the rest of the room. She saw a massive painting, a family of four, two little girls, a man and a woman. For a moment she simply stared at the painting, her eyes trying to focus on the faces to no avail. After a while she gave up, her shoulders weakly moving as she tried to turn her head further.
Her eyes wandered further over the room, across a dresser, then a small cabinet, then towards a figure laying on the bed. She stared at it for a few moments, her lips thinning as her eyes latched onto the figure that lay there. It was the only thing in the room she recognize, oddly enough.
“You look like death.” Rose said out loud, startled to see the figure move its lips.
Suddenly a realization dawned on her. The figure was a reflection, a mirror image. She searched for a second, then realized she had been looking at a huge standing mirror that covered the closet doors at the far end of the room. The reflection she was looking at was herself, tired, worn, and looking as though she was standing at deaths door.
Her skin was pale, more pale than before. The veins in her skin had turned an inky black, her eyes were filled with red, and her hair had lost all luster and sheen. Beads of sweat dotted her brow and sunk into her clothing, though she seemed to have rid herself of most of that. Her lips were an odd blue color and the tips of her ear were a strange red. A small trickle of blood escaped her mouth, and it felt as though every single inch of her was aching in pain.
As she watched herself, observed her weak and frail form within the reflection of the mirror, she had only one question.
How had she gotten here?
She didn't remember going to bed. She didn't remember standing. In fact the last thing that she remembered was collapsing on the bathroom floor while waiting for the doctor. Had he come? Had he made his appearance and given her his diagnosis?
Frantically her eyes searched the room. She looked for a prescription, a note, anything that would indicate to her that the doctor had been present, that she would be better and wouldn’t have to suffer any more than she already was. Yet as she looked, as her eyes searched in absolute desperation, she found no sign of anyone or anything having been there, she could not even find her own clothes that she knew she had been wearing.
A vivid memory of blood and spittle pushed into her mind, and her lips turned into a frown as she tried to remember getting into the bed.
Nothing came to her, only confusion.
It seemed impossible, confusing.
What was going on? Had she crawled and forgotten? Had she walked and hit her head? Weakly, as though knocking at deaths door she reached up and gently began to feel at her forehead. She pressed and touched, searching for pain. All she found was sweat.
Where was the doctor? How had she gotten to bed? What was wrong with her?
Those three questions plagued Rose's mind, pushed and prodded at her. She tried to figure it all out. She didn't care anymore where the disease had come from, she didn't care anymore why she had it, all she wanted was for it to go away. Her eyes wandered once again, this time not around the room, but towards the nightstand. There she found what she was looking for, a small remote device. A small gasp escaped her lips, and slowly she reached for it.
It felt as though her entire body was stretching. Lethargically she managed to push herself, her arm shifting, its black veins slightly moving, her fingers skeletal wrapping around the communicator and finally pulling it towards herself. A sigh escaped her lips, desperation fleeing from her body as her life slowly left her.
Who would she call?
Her Parents were gone.
Lily was too far away.
She had no other family.
The Sith?
Rose had not gone back to the Sith, not after her failure. She still remembered that, it was hard to forget. She knew that if she called Vrag, if she called the Sith...things might get worse before they got better. Yet right now, in this moment, they were her only hope. Her sister was gone, dealing with business and growing a corporation into something great. Her parents had abandoned her, whether for her safety, or for their own.
The truth was, Rose had no one else.
At least no one else that she knew of.
She could not have known who got her into this bed, she could not have known that that sense of paranoia of someone watching her was indeed true. Had she known it perhaps she would not have dialed the communicator. Had she known she would perhaps not have given up so easily, but Rose didn't know, and so slowly, she pressed the keys and called those whom she feared most.