Cipher Code {complete}

Chapter Twelve: The Gravity Of His Mind •EDITED•

I haven't had an episode this bad in months. . .

He let out a groan and forced himself to sit up, the world slowly coming to a stop as the gravity in his mind eventually righted itself and he could finally stand without feeling like he was swimming upsidedown in a bucket full of nothingness.

"I am one unlucky human." The messenger let out a laugh as he brought his left hand to his mouth and bit hard on his knuckle, using the pain to drive away the sickness that bubbled in the depths of his gut.

He could taste the faint tang of metal as his teeth dug deep, past the glove and into his skin, rivulets of blood soaking the material of his mask and slipping onto his tongue.

Philip licked his lips and pulled his throbbing hand away, thankful for the wake-up call but was also half concerned that the fog would infect the wound.

Do I really care?

This was one of the many times he wondered why life enjoyed screwing with him. He still didn't know how to feel about Issac's sudden reappearance and yet it didn't really matter.

My feelings aren't important, I'm still going to have to deal with it anyway. Philip scoffed and looked down at his throbbing hand with a morbid fascination.

A part of him was curious to see what would happen if he left it exposed and the other part already knew. No news of the poisonous fog had evaded him.

Either I lose this hand or I die. Neither option seemed too bad actually, dying would surely feel much better than the agony he would have to go through to survive.

Issac.

Issac.

Issac.

This is because of you.

Philip had thought he would feel better once he found him. After all Issac was his lost friend, a part of himself that he had missed for as long as he could remember. But on the other hand, that same friend was also the most famous person in the North.

Braek. . . It took the eighteen year old a few minutes for his mind to come to the realization that his childhood friend Iza was the Issac Westley of the North, and from there he was dragged into a mix of hate, joy, relief and dread-but thankfully no more nausea.

"I can't believe this." Philip dug his nails into his scalp and tried not to yank his hair out by the roots as he glared at nothing in particular.

I am a blasted fool. He wished he could slap himself but his hold on his head was probably the only thing keeping it from exploding.

Only an idiot wouldn't realize. . . And all this time I thought. . .