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<div class="imgs" style="margin-left: 25px;"><div class="imgabove"><img src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/7dafd1774b14e6c6f41d485745bbf2ff/tumblr_inline_mw9ibzqYw51rom4b4.png"/></div><div class="imgbelow"><img src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/a610342099c60241ab9982b33636835b/tumblr_inline_mw9ibvezMa1rom4b4.png" style="opacity:1;"></div><div class="texthid" style="font-size: 12px; font-family: georgia; line-height:normal;"><link href='http://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Great+Vibes|Stint+Ultra+Condensed' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'><center><SPAN style="FONT-FAMILY: georgia; color:white; text-shadow:lightgrey 0px 0px 5px;"><div style="font-family: 'Great Vibes', cursive;font-size:24pt;letter-spacing:-1px;margin-left:35px;margin-right:-35px;"> I'm only afraid of what I want
<div style="margin-top:-15px;font-family: 'Stint Ultra Condensed', cursive;font-size:24pt;letter-spacing:0px;"> ft. tris & four۰ divergent. </div></div></SPAN></center></link></div></div><div style="margin: -215px -50px 70px 50px;border: 1px lightgrey solid;padding: 2px;width: 395px !important;"><div style="width: 395px; height: 170px;background-image: url('https://31.media.tumblr.com/17a955b99905354e331aded16795b766/tumblr_my2ihwkvOW1rtzly6o1_500.gif');" class="gifgo"> </div></div><div style="margin-top:-95px;">
<blockquote><div style="line-height:normal; text-align: justify;font-size:12px;margin-top:-10px; border-bottom: 7px lightgrey solid;"><p><img src="http://img70.xooimage.com/files/4/c/a/blanc-3227b9d.gif" width="90" height="40" align="left">
I open my eyes to the words "fear god alone" painted on a plain white wall. I hear the sound of running water again, but this time it’s from a faucet and not from the chasm. Seconds go by before I see definite edges in my surroundings, the lines of door frame and countertop and ceiling. The pain is a constant throb in my head and cheek and ribs. I shouldn’t move; it will make everything worse. I see a blue patchwork quilt under my head and wince as I tilt my head to see where the water sound i s coming from. Four stands in the bathroom with his hands in the sink. Blood fro m his knuckles turns the sink water pink. He has a cut at the corner of his mouth, but he seems otherwise unharmed. His expression is placid as he examines his cuts, turns off the water, and dries his hands with a towel. I have only one memory of getting here, and even that is just a single image: black ink curling around the side of a neck, the corner of a tattoo, and the gentle sway that could only mean he was carrying me. </p><p> He turns off the bathroom light and gets an ice pack from the refrigerator in the corner of the room. As he walks toward me, I consider closing my eyes and pretending to be asleep, but then our eyes meet and it’s too late. “<b>Your hands</b>,” I croak. “<b>My hands are none of your concern</b>,” he replies. He rests his knee on the mattress and leans over me, slipping the ice pack under my head. Before he pulls away, I reach out to touch the cut on the side of his lip but stop when I realize what I am about to do, my hand hovering...

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