Blood Brides: A First Look For Free

Chapter One: Learning How To Live

The light bled through, and Helena Swanson knew it was time to die. Her eyes, burdened by fatigue, reluctantly unveiled a world determined to snatch her back from the solace of unconsciousness. Morning's harsh rays penetrated the thin fabric of her tent, casting a feeble glow on the worn canvas walls. A makeshift bed of coarse blankets cradled her frail form, the fibres pressing into her weakened frame.

Fixated on her father's boots shuffling into view, Helena watched as worn leather creaked with each step. Jim Swanson, a kind yet weathered man, bore the imprints of a life defined by hardship and love. His eyes, once vibrant, now clouded with concern, surveyed his daughter's struggle against the grip of sickness.

"Helena," he called out softly, his voice cutting through the oppressive stillness of the tent like a gentle melody. Approaching her with the care of years of fatherly tenderness, he said, "Time to wake up, sweetheart."

As she pushed herself up, the effort revealed the gaunt contours of her face. Sweat clung to her pallid skin, and damp strands of hair clung to her forehead. Trying to muster a smile, it faltered into a weak grimace.

Peering into her father's eyes, she expected the usual surge of fear that waking in this unforgiving world brought. However, today, a strange calm settled over her. Deep down, Helena longed for release, an escape from the ceaseless struggle against an illness determined to claim her.

Jim crouched beside her, a weathered hand brushing a strand of hair from her clammy brow. His touch, a soothing balm, momentarily eased the ache that radiated through Helena's weakened body.

"Helena, how are you feeling?" Jim asked, his voice tinged with worry.

She managed a faint, resigned smile. "Same as always, Dad. Just tired."

His gaze held a mixture of love and sorrow, gently squeezing her hand. "I'll fetch some water and breakfast. We'll get you back on your feet, sweetheart. You'll see."

As Jim rose, Helena watched his retreating figure, her father's silhouette a comforting presence against the harsh backdrop of their makeshift town. The canvas walls whispered in the breeze, and the indifferent world outside hinted at her struggle. Yet, in her father's eyes, a silent promise lingered—to stand by her side until the very end.

The sounds of the makeshift town stirred—the murmur of conversations, clattering pots and pans, distant laughter of children playing. The air carried a peculiar scent, a blend of dust and something metallic, revealing the nature of their world.

The makeshift town, a haven for those surviving in the shadows, bore the scars of an existence teetering on the edge. Tattered tents dotted the landscape, makeshift structures leaned for support. People moved with a quiet urgency, faces marked by the struggle for survival.

As the town bustled, Helena closed her eyes, embracing the fleeting relief death promised. In the hushed tent, the bond between father and daughter stood resilient—a fragile thread woven through the fabric of their shared existence in a world hiding dangers beneath the surface.

As Jim vanished into the bustling makeshift town, Helena's tent stirred with the lively entrance of her best friend, Lucy Sparks. With vibrant blue eyes and a cascade of wild auburn curls, Lucy exuded a magnetic energy that cut through the sombre surroundings like a beacon. Her last name was a curious contradiction to her spirited personality—Lucy Sparks, a radiant light in their dim world.

"Hey, Helena!" Lucy chimed, ducking into the tent with a mischievous grin. "You look like you've been wrestling with a sandstorm. Tough night?"

Helena managed a weak laugh. "More like a dance with the Reaper, Lucy. Same old, same old."