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[OS] Holding Hands Will Fall
PERMALINK // POSTED ON: Dec 22 2013, 01:11 AM
There was so much going on in Lydia's mind as of recently that the strawberry blonde was surprised that she had much time to go about her days at all. Stiles had been turned into a werewolf by Derek which meant possibilities of Marcel issuing a punishment still lingered overhead. If that were to occur, Derek, Stiles and Jackson would feel that wrath...
Lydia was also anticipating a punishment of her own for having raised Laura from the dead without the proper permission to do so. Derek - who faced an obvious punishment if found guilty for turning Stiles - was expecting a child sometime in February, Stiles' father had landed early the morning before and was residing with the new couple for just over two weeks...
There was so much going on that sometimes Lydia forgot how to breathe and how to think about things that didn't center around how chaotic her life was as of late.
With so many distractions, Lydia had failed to notice that the traffic light up ahead had turned red; the strawberry blonde continuing to accelerate towards the intersection as she wondered what other errands she had to run before returning home. Groceries had been bought, bills had been paid...
It was the bellowing horn from a semi-truck that pulled Lydia from her thoughts; the truck screeching as the driver tried to control the massive-sized vehicle as it hit a patch of black ice forming on the Italian road. It swerved slightly to the right and then the left and back again, though kept its accelerated speed through its uncertainty. The piercing - almost deafening - sound of the breaks hitting Lydia's ears almost harder than her SUV hit the guardrail in an attempt to swerve out of the semi's way.
Still, it wasn't enough to keep the truck from swiping the back-end of Lydia's SUV, causing her car to veer back out towards the road. The sound of metal-on-metal echoing through the otherwise silent road; her window's glass smashing in its partial frame as the door dented inward, deforming the driver's half of her car.
The impact was too much for her vehicle to handle and even with her seatbelt secured around her body, it wasn't enough to keep Lydia from feeling the motion of her car flipping over its own side, each side of her car - right, top, left and bottom once again - hitting the pavement before it came to a stop. Glass broken, smoke dancing from the hood of her car, metal jagged and intimidating to the eye.
As all the debris began to settle, there was little movement coming from Lydia. Her breathing was heavy and staggered; there was blood everywhere. Blood that freely trickled down the side of her face, her whole anterior frame drenched in blood.
She could feel pain traveling up her spine, through her arms, down her legs, across her throat; her head pounding violently. Every nerve ending in the necromancer's body was on fire and every breath was taking more energy than she had to offer at that point. Her vision was blurred as she struggled to see out of her shattered windshield; the broken glass and the smoke from the blood of her SUV obscuring her shaky vision.
It was causing her head to throb and spin all the more as she tried to focus her vision, so instead she focused on her breathing. In and out... in and out... in and out... Her breaths were short, slow and shallow; panic had yet to sink through the level of shock that she was settled in.
Breathing shouldn't be so complicated, even in a shocked state. Her breaths should be rapidly paced, not slow and barely existent. One of the perks of being such a self-made genius was knowing that much which was why Lydia's mind went to her high school biology classes, thinking of all the ways her breathing could be impaired.
A shaky hand loosened the seat belt from around her body; it wasn't tight enough to cause any difficulties and as she swallowed, she was able to tell immediately that there was nothing internally obstructing her windpipe.
As she let go of the seat belt she had been trying to rid herself of, however... it was then that Lydia saw the shard of glass from her windshield that had managed to bury itself within her chest cavity. The white top that she had chosen to wear that day was drenched in blood.
All Lydia had to do was stay awake at that point. She knew she shouldn't try to move, and trying to take the glass out of her chest could do more damage than good. It was keeping her from bleeding out, but with the potential of more injuries that she was unable to investigate... it could very well be a lost cause.
The truck driver who had remained unscathed was the one who had placed a panicked call to 911; the faint sounds of sirens echoing through the cold night. That was all she had remembered before she had lost consciousness the first time, waking up to the sound of metal being torn apart as the driver's side door was removed completely, almost with ease.
Her sense of hearing was almost as impaired at that point as her vision was blurry. She could barely make out the voices that danced around her, calling out things that Lydia was unable to pick up. Hands moving around her, on her, near her... one minute she had been sitting upright and the next she had been carefully laid on her back on a stretcher that was making its way into the back of an ambulance.
She was freezing cold; the heated blanket put across her abdomen and legs wasn't helping at all. Each time a pad of gauze pressed down on an open wound to stop bleeding, Lydia was briefly pulled back enough to wince at the feeling. Not so much pain - she felt none - but more so at the pressure.
The paramedics struggled to keep her attention as they made jokes to keep her alert and in better spirits. She knew they were treating her as if things weren't as badly as they were; patients reacted better to treatment if they felt things weren't as terrible as they really were, but Lydia knew better. She could barely feel the paramedic's hand that held hers in the back of the ambulance.
And then suddenly, the heart monitor that they had set her up with began to scream a high-pitched, monotone beep - a flat line - as her pale hand went limp in the paramedic's grip.
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