ᴅᴀᴡɴ ᴏꜰ ᴄʀɪᴍꜱᴏɴ ─── ᴇᴍᴍᴇᴛᴛ ᴄᴜʟʟᴇɴ ³

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴇɪɢʜᴛ: ꜰᴇᴇᴅ

     I tried to focus as Carlisle and the others filled me in on everything that had happened during my time of transformation—the Salem Thirteen's appearance, and their attempt to kill the family out of vengeance for losing what they wanted from me. But concentrating was nearly impossible. The world around me was too loud, too overwhelming. The rustling of the wind through the trees sounded like a hurricane. Every flutter of a bird's wings, the crunch of leaves under small animals, even the subtle vibrations of insects nearby—each noise pulled at my attention, a cacophony impossible to block out.

My senses were overloaded, making their words seem distant like echoes underwater. I clenched my fists, struggling to stay tethered to the conversation, but the constant barrage of sounds made it feel like I was drowning

Then there was my sight, it was sharper than I could have imagined, every detail overwhelming. I could see the faintest patterns of the ground as if I had my eye against the floor, the way the light refracted through the smallest shards of broken glass from the shattered window, and even individual grains of dust floating in the air. It was mesmerising and disorienting all at once.

Then there was the scent—so many scents. Each one hit me like a wave, drowning out everything else. The sharp tang of pine sap from the forest outside, the lingering scent of leather from an old book in the corner, even the faint trace of Emmett's cologne mixed with his unique essence.

My throat burned, a searing reminder of what I'd become, and it made focusing on anything else almost impossible. My head whirled as I struggled to filter it all, to keep from succumbing to the urges.

"Charlotte?" Emmett's voice rang out, clear and steady, cutting through the overwhelming flood of sensations assaulting me. His hand brushed against mine, anchoring me. It was as if he could sense the battle raging within me—the struggle to focus, to filter the bombarding of senses.

"I'm sorry... I just—," I said, my voice trembling as I shook my head slightly. The whirlwind of sensations was too much, flooding my mind and leaving me unable to concentrate.

"It will be overwhelming at first," Carlisle said, drawing my gaze to him. His voice was calm, steady, and full of reassurance. "But in time, you'll learn to control it." There was such certainty in his words, a promise that I would be able to control it. But even as his words lingered in the air, the burning in my throat stole my attention.

The burning in my throat was unlike anything I'd ever felt—a searing, relentless fire that clawed at me from the inside. It felt as though I hadn't had water in days, my body screaming for relief, but I knew this thirst wasn't for water. I tried swallowing, but there was nothing there to swallow, so it just was drier than ever.

"You need to feed," Carlisle's voice broke through my spiral, calm but firm. His words weren't a suggestion but a necessity.

This was the part I had dreaded most about turning—the constant, gnawing thirst and the question of whether I'd have the strength to resist human blood. I had seen what it did to newborns, how the mere scent of it could drive them into a frenzy.