Mine, all Mine (Book 1) (Mature 18+)

Mine, all Mine: Part 3 (Untitled) Sneak Peek

                                                                               TRISTAN

Someone was trying to kill him. Tristan was sure of it. How else could you explain the relentless, continuous pounding storming through his head? The throbbing? The sharp twinges and blinding light, flashing behind his eyes? Jesus Christ. What the fuck?

He wanted to scream but nothing would come out. He tried moving but felt incapacitated. Was he strapped down? Were they holding him down? Who was it? Was he trapped? Why couldn't he open his eyes? Why couldn't he speak?

The only noise he could muster was a long, agonizing groan, a mixture of torment and agony. He was going to die. He knew it. He wanted to die. The intensity of his pain was unbearable. No one could survive this. It was worse than any migraine he'd ever encountered. Was this an aneurysm? Was he crossing over to the other side? Is that what the blinding, flashing lights were?

Where was his Mom? Ricky? Where was Serenity?

He'd never felt so alone in his life. So, abandoned. The fear squeezing him from all angles unnerved him. He felt a panic attack coming on and that made him panic even more. He hated those goddamn things. Hadn't had one in years. How could he handle one when he couldn't move or speak?

Jesus. God. Christ. Mary. Joseph- Somebody!

And then he felt it. The unmistakable surge of nausea. He was going to be ill and he was going to be ill violently. There was no way he could stop it. He struggled to move. He felt like he was on his back and worried if he didn't turn over, he was going to choke to death on his own vomit. But he was bolted. It was impossible.

A low, humming ring in his ear started and became louder. The flashes behind his eyes grew brighter.

"Oh God," he managed to squeak before the flood.

He slightly lifted his back; then helplessly fell back on the bed, the vomit projecting from his mouth. Immediately, there was a feeling of being turned on his side. He heard someone speaking to him, but it was hard to decipher who it was over the sound of his retching and gagging.

The vomiting seemed to go on forever; then he was gasping for air, spent and exhausted.

He could faintly make out the sound of a soft, caring voice saying, "I got you Trist. It's okay. You're okay. I got you."

"M-Mom," he gasped. "Mom..."

"I got you. It's going to be okay."

He heard nothing else. Seconds later, he was unconscious again.

How many days had it been? Had it been months? Weeks? What the hell was that annoying sound? That continuous, beeping noise?

Tristan squirmed and moved his head back and forth, struggling to open his eyes. He tried to move his upper torso but couldn't. He felt immobilized, like he'd been before. Thank God he didn't feel sick again. That was the last thing he remembered. The vomiting. The disgusting vomiting. Feeling like his insides were being ripped out with joy by some relentless, evil masochist. He prayed to God he was never sick like that again.

He was still having a hard time opening his eyes. It was like they were glued shut. He moved his mouth but couldn't form words or sound. He tried swallowing and was relieved there wasn't anything blocking his airway. He helplessly sighed and tried opening his eyes again. It was a task, but he finally did it.

Eyes opened; he blinked the blurriness from his eyes. Slowly, everything came into focus.

His forehead creased with confusion. He was in a room. A sterile, white room. He glanced down and saw he was in a hospital bed. He was in the hospital! He looked to the right of him and saw the machines hooked up. The IV drip leading down to his right, bandaged hand. The machine monitoring his heartrate.