Kidnapped after a terrifying event in the woman's bathroom, and after being offered up as a 'snack', Kyla is thrown into the world of vampires where only her faith can save her through the horrific trials waiting in the Blood Room. Once the remainin...
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Now, I'm usually good at understanding metaphors. Similes, personification, et cetera. I'm a writer, for crying out loud, I need to for the most part. But my strange brain has trouble wrapping around things sometimes. And from what I understand about this personification of time, my head begins to ache from it. Perhaps I can't leave until I lose faith. Maybe it's become a vampire or die and maybe it has been since I stepped foot in this place. Or was brought here. You get my drift.
Maybe they'll keep me until time rakes its claws down my face and gravity pulls at my skin until it's nearly fallen off. It's possible I will never leave here alive. I mean, even if I turend into a vampire, I'd be dead. Undead. Zombie-ish. I think I'd much rather be a zombie, I mean, if I was anything like Live Moore from iZombie. Or, well, not like her. She doesn't make too many Godly choices, granted it's also from the brains she eats. They alter her personality and she takes on the character she'd eaten the brains of. Genius, if I must say. I don't think I would have ever thought about that.
I wonder what blood does to the vampires. Do they act different when they drink blood? I'm sure I'd ask the woman leading me if I didn't feel the threat of danger scraping the top of my head with every clunk I made on the ground with my feet.
I try to quiet my footfall, afraid one loud noise could set something off. Of course, I have to remind myself people are screaming in terror and nothing's happening. To me, in that case, aside from the tears about to stream down my unwashed face.
I pick at a forming pimple on my forehead nervously as the woman continues to walk with me in tow. I can hear my mom, Don't pick at your face! It makes me crack a small smile out of the midst of my fear. Like with Tobias and my relationship, once I moved away, I had to push out the painful longing to see him again and to see my family. They were probably worried to death about me. Scratch that. Are. Not were. Unless they've given up on me, which I doubt. I was the first child on my mom's side of the family, the one we live closer to, and, I'm not saying I have more rights to be found than the other kids should they go missing, but they've all watched me grow and helped form and shape who I was. Untill I moved to Hawai'i for three and a half years, where my dad was stationed.
But the feelings I'd been trying to push away, most of the time unsuccessfully because of the lack of distractions, are beginning to bubble up as I become curious of the Blood Room. Why is it called that anyway? When someone says its name, I picture, like, this room with blood dripping down the walls slowly with torture devices inside, and, man, does it freak me out. I shudder violently as goose bumps trail down my eczematic arms and make my hands tremble. I cross them in front of me as we reach the end of the excruciatingly long hallway and it tee's off in two directions: left and right.
"Pick one."
"Huh?"
"Would you like to go right, or would you like to go left?"
