A Short Story : A Story?

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Oliver screamed as the searing pain spread from his neck. His blood vessels were on fire. As he exhausted himself fighting against the anguish he tried to push against the face buried in the fire of his neck. That pretty face. Her beautiful raven hair and porcelain white skin, now stained with red smears. She had been his friend at school for the last year and they had got quite close. Now she was gnawing on his sinewy neck like it was a melting ice cream. Blood was splashing all around him as he felt a cold surge come as the fire subsided. His body felt heavy and his mind clouded over as he slipped into what he thought was deaths very welcome embrace.
He was wrong.
‘Bright lights,’ that was all he could think about when he began to wake. ‘What’s with these Bright lights?’ He asked himself as lucidity returned to his numbed mind. As he began thinking this a shadow was cast over him, the face was blurred but he knew who it was. His little sister, Arya, had a displeased look on her face as she began shaking him. Her skin was pale, and her blonde hair was in two bunches that hung down as she leant over him.
“Wake up!” she scowled. Oliver yawned as he sat up fast, faster than he should of. Arya leapt backwards to avoid him. He threw the covers off himself and smoothed out his pyjamas as he got up.
“Oi, you big oaf,” she spat, “you nearly head-butted me.”
“Sorry,” Oliver said as he giggled to himself.
“You know that you’ll never get me,” she shook her head in pride,
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