InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Stranger In My Bed ❯ Chapter 1
[ P - Pre-Teen ]
By: Yoshimi Evangelina 
Anime/Manga: InuYasha Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 04.21.2004 | Pages: 1 | Words: 871 | Visits: 276 | Status: Completed
Anime/Manga: InuYasha Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 04.21.2004 | Pages: 1 | Words: 871 | Visits: 276 | Status: Completed
There's a man in my bed.
The fact that this statement refers to me is foreign; My bed has dust-bunnies under and between the sheets. The fact that I’m not getting any action anyway does not omit this important fact:
There. Is. A. Man. In. My. Bed.
Another point you should know: I don’t know him at all. He’s been unconscious ever since I first found him lying in 5 feet of snow.
I watch him, waiting for signs of consciousness. He lies there in a death-like repose, but his breathing is soft yet strong. I’m encouraged by the tint of colour in his cheeks above those strange magenta slashes. The colour lends his beautiful but grim visage a boyish charm; makes you want to do something impulsive like cuddling up against him or something.
He has hardly twitched or shifted in the 12 hours he's lain there. I feel like a stalker; I've seen him partially naked, and he hasn't been conscious to know it.
I return to reading my book, but my eyes keep straying. I feel content in studying his features, his bold, masculine beauty. His silver bangs lie perfectly against his forehead, parted precisely in the middle to expose that crescent moon tattoo. I can imagine people would have been freaked out by anybody willing to undergo facial tattooing, but I couldn't take my eyes away from his ears.
His pointy ears remind me of Legolas. I touch them briefly to check that they are real, when suddenly the phone rings like a highly charged explosive. It breaks into the tranquil, 'ogling' silence. I turn briefly to pick up the receiver when I find his hand around my throat. Firmly squeezing.
"What are you doing???" I yell. I try to pry his hand open hoping that he's just paranoid, disoriented and insecure, but the dispassionate, unwavering intent in his golden eyes makes my blood run cold.
Is he actually going to kill me??
"Why are you doing this??" I beg for him to stop, crying angry tears but he only seems annoyed. I try to pull away from his tightening grip, like a fox caught in a leg-trap.
The phone continues ringing, it's electronic tinkling is a high pitched wail amidst the roar of blood in my ears. I hear the fire crackle behind me as if I was standing in front of a Boeing 747. The absolute clarity with which I see every flippant detail of my life while I look death in the face is not all about irony that everybody writes about. It's a tragicomedic instance in the last five seconds of my life.
The last five seconds of my life?
Dying with that thought in my head makes me angry. No way in Hell. I punch mercilessly at the wound I'd just bandaged an hour ago. Another irrational thought flits through my head - the hell I'm going to let my relatives know I died for being naive.
I'm expecting him to react like a villain in a movie; let go long enough for me to get the HELL out of here! Instead, he just grunts a little bit as if I'm a mosquito buzzing in his face. The air is being squeezed out of my throat as he lifts me the full length of his arm, and then I'm flying across the room. The force is so much I feel like I'm falling horizontally.
I'm sure my heart has stopped.
My body hits the bookshelf like a ragdoll. The bookshelf shakes, and as I drop to the ground it falls down right on top of me. I feel my knee twist in its socket and I beat my fist and scream in absolute pain, struggling out from underneath it, just hoping to be able to run out of there. He's standing now, but I notice with some satisfaction that his hand is gently cradling the fresh-bleeding wound. The dog, that stupid little dog has finally roused itself to start barking.
Come on, you damn dog, start ripping him to shreds!! But he throws it a cursory glance and it's barking stops, it yelps, and begins to run down the staircase, only to start barking at the attacker from downstairs.
<i>Good</i> dog.
Is that phone still ringing?
He seems annoyed with it too, ripping the bloody thing out of the wall. But it still keeps ringing because he's only pulled up more of the telephone cord. Then with inhuman strength, he crushes it in his hand as easily as a child would a marshmallow.
After watching how easily he crushed the phone, I'm thinking I must have invited Satan into my house.
He sits back on the bed. By the way he's touching his midriff, I can only guess that he's in pain. He's holding it in with such superhuman endurance, he seems more agitated than in actual pain.
The fact that this statement refers to me is foreign; My bed has dust-bunnies under and between the sheets. The fact that I’m not getting any action anyway does not omit this important fact:
There. Is. A. Man. In. My. Bed.
Another point you should know: I don’t know him at all. He’s been unconscious ever since I first found him lying in 5 feet of snow.
I watch him, waiting for signs of consciousness. He lies there in a death-like repose, but his breathing is soft yet strong. I’m encouraged by the tint of colour in his cheeks above those strange magenta slashes. The colour lends his beautiful but grim visage a boyish charm; makes you want to do something impulsive like cuddling up against him or something.
He has hardly twitched or shifted in the 12 hours he's lain there. I feel like a stalker; I've seen him partially naked, and he hasn't been conscious to know it.
I return to reading my book, but my eyes keep straying. I feel content in studying his features, his bold, masculine beauty. His silver bangs lie perfectly against his forehead, parted precisely in the middle to expose that crescent moon tattoo. I can imagine people would have been freaked out by anybody willing to undergo facial tattooing, but I couldn't take my eyes away from his ears.
His pointy ears remind me of Legolas. I touch them briefly to check that they are real, when suddenly the phone rings like a highly charged explosive. It breaks into the tranquil, 'ogling' silence. I turn briefly to pick up the receiver when I find his hand around my throat. Firmly squeezing.
"What are you doing???" I yell. I try to pry his hand open hoping that he's just paranoid, disoriented and insecure, but the dispassionate, unwavering intent in his golden eyes makes my blood run cold.
Is he actually going to kill me??
"Why are you doing this??" I beg for him to stop, crying angry tears but he only seems annoyed. I try to pull away from his tightening grip, like a fox caught in a leg-trap.
The phone continues ringing, it's electronic tinkling is a high pitched wail amidst the roar of blood in my ears. I hear the fire crackle behind me as if I was standing in front of a Boeing 747. The absolute clarity with which I see every flippant detail of my life while I look death in the face is not all about irony that everybody writes about. It's a tragicomedic instance in the last five seconds of my life.
The last five seconds of my life?
Dying with that thought in my head makes me angry. No way in Hell. I punch mercilessly at the wound I'd just bandaged an hour ago. Another irrational thought flits through my head - the hell I'm going to let my relatives know I died for being naive.
I'm expecting him to react like a villain in a movie; let go long enough for me to get the HELL out of here! Instead, he just grunts a little bit as if I'm a mosquito buzzing in his face. The air is being squeezed out of my throat as he lifts me the full length of his arm, and then I'm flying across the room. The force is so much I feel like I'm falling horizontally.
I'm sure my heart has stopped.
My body hits the bookshelf like a ragdoll. The bookshelf shakes, and as I drop to the ground it falls down right on top of me. I feel my knee twist in its socket and I beat my fist and scream in absolute pain, struggling out from underneath it, just hoping to be able to run out of there. He's standing now, but I notice with some satisfaction that his hand is gently cradling the fresh-bleeding wound. The dog, that stupid little dog has finally roused itself to start barking.
Come on, you damn dog, start ripping him to shreds!! But he throws it a cursory glance and it's barking stops, it yelps, and begins to run down the staircase, only to start barking at the attacker from downstairs.
<i>Good</i> dog.
Is that phone still ringing?
He seems annoyed with it too, ripping the bloody thing out of the wall. But it still keeps ringing because he's only pulled up more of the telephone cord. Then with inhuman strength, he crushes it in his hand as easily as a child would a marshmallow.
After watching how easily he crushed the phone, I'm thinking I must have invited Satan into my house.
He sits back on the bed. By the way he's touching his midriff, I can only guess that he's in pain. He's holding it in with such superhuman endurance, he seems more agitated than in actual pain.