I realize that this story is going to be very vague. But I am in the middle of planning and writing new story, and this is the prologue to it. I'm only settling for a BAM beginning, you know the kind of beginning that makes you wonder about the rest of the story. I would love feedback on the beginning! :)
Why am I not waking up?
He thinks as he stares at her lifeless body. Her translucent emerald green eyes are empty, burning his last memory of the warmth that used to be there, as he continues to study this new form of her. Her copper red locks fans around her angelic face, she's laying on the kitchen floor. He wants to check her pulse to see if there is still life, but he knows better. He just stands there, his fingers flexing around the trigger guard of the black revolver in his clammy hands. Her lips are still faintly pink with life she had just minutes ago. Or was it hours? He's lost track of the time, it feels like minutes since he has pulled the trigger, but his aching feet tell a different story.
"Aileen?" his voice shatters the silence.
He waits for her to respond, but she doesn't. She just lays there. His muscles ache from immobilization, but he doesn't care, he moves to her side.
"Aileen?" he says again.
He doesn't know why he keeps saying her name. He knows better, but he indulges on the thought that those pretty green eyes of hers will flutter to life and the rise in her chest will be back.
He drops to his knees, the caps of his knees becoming wet with her crimson red blood. The fact that she's dead starts to sink in as he realizes he's kneeling in her puddle of blood.
"Aileen!" he repeats with more alarm in his voice. He quickly denies the thought of her expiration.
He grabs both of her shoulders and starts to shake her violently. "Wake up! Wake up!" he's yelling now. "Please stop playing around Aileen." He keeps shaking her. Her cupids bow lips are parted now from the movement, her eyes still empty staring at the ceiling. She doesn't respond.
"Oh Aileen please stop playing sweetheart." He's sobbing now, his own body now shaking with grief. His face is wet with tears as he encircles her in his arms. She's heavy and her skin feels cold against his. He drops the gun he was half aware he was still holding and kicks it across the cheap linoleum floor. He's brushing strands of her hair out of her face and leans down to plant a lingering desperate kiss on her cold lips. He retracts quickly to assess her response, but there is none.
He waits for what feels like eternity, but the pink flush of life never makes its presence on her pale cheeks. Her faint brown freckles that lightly splash her cheeks and nose are the only colors there. Her skin is as pale as the white under shirt he's wearing.
What have I done?