Her hands shook.

Her hands shook.

Her chest was tight with panic, the type strictly reserved for twilight exile and those inconceivable, brief moments preceding death.

Pale sunlight filtered through the slatted shutters while the ceiling fan above clicked with the same rhythm as her pounding rib cage. Her stare widened to accept the stillness of the room. Glancing down, she saw raised veins running from knuckles to fingers which had always been hers, but somehow felt foreign; like such little thought had ever been given to their detailed craftsmanship.

Her throat constricted as she gasped, tears pooling, temples taut from inside her head. No explanation was provided, there was only blood…