You woke up to a voice, but it was worried and even desperate. She wouldn't call him if he was hurt. Right? She wouldn't care. You were just someone she had to be with. Forced to be with. A sharp pain in your stomach somehow snapped you out of it. The plush cushion under you in contrast to the cold-warm bed, something was wrong.

WAKE UP. WAKE UP. WAKE UP. You finally opened your eyes, worried for the person that's been calling you all this time, confused to see a light blue ceiling and no one was calling him. You rubbed your eyes from sleep as you slumped against the oak headboard, heart pounding and your tendrils limp and sprawled against the bed, the gold accents glinting in the dazzling stained sunlight. Just imagination. That's right, you're a consul, back in your room. Not the cold desolate grey room you were trapped in when you were younger by your father as a 'punishment' or 'character shaping'.

"Don't call me that..." you whispered, although to no one, your dorm room was empty and the only sounds were the occasional wind chimes and the whispers of Cookies outside as they walked past. Maybe it wasn't the best of times to suddenly set boundaries, talking to no one like a pathetic Cookie, considering how your abdomen starts to hurt more. Your hand instinctively places itself on top of the pain. Hunger pangs? Or was it the wounds you sliced into your hip? You didn't know. That was enough to have you wincing as you got up from the bed, picking up your duvet from the ground that had been tossed from your nightmare-dream. You walked into your bathroom. Brush your teeth, do your daily routine, especially facial. You looked at the mirror, ruffling your hair a bit as you noticed a scar you hid, one right at the side of your hairline. When your father threw you into the table in a fit of anger, it was a light scar but you knew so many bad memories due to it.