Pain seared through my right leg. I had managed to deflect the main blow, but my enemy’s dagger had still found somewhere to inflict pain.
I tried not to let my gaze wander to the motionless bodies next to me –right now, I needed to focus on the fight before me, I could mourn later, if I was still alive to…
I closed the book with a slam. I waited a few minutes, trying to calm my ecstatic pulse. After I got over the initial shock, I carefully lifted the end of my pyjama bottoms up, waiting to see the damage.
It wasn’t as bad as I had thought it would be, just an angry pink line, going across my thigh. Sighing, I reached out to get my laptop, While it loaded, I checked the time; 10:30, or thereabouts. When I had finally logged on, I searched ‘synopsis of ‘’the chosen three’’ ‘, I really hoped the author hadn’t chosen to kill, or seriously injure her main character – I could hardly explain to my mum how I had managed to break a leg, or some ribs, while I was supposedly asleep. She already thought I was up to no good, thanks to the last time. Although, I hadn’t known the full extent of what had happened, either. From what I had experienced, Id read my book, and woken up with the same injuries as the heroine. How was I supposed to realise that my broken arm was due to an epic fight to the death, and not an accident during the night? When my search results came up, I headed back to bed, disappointed. The author had decided that her character needed to die. That meant I couldn’t read it.
Not because I’m overly sensitive or anything. I’m not really sure what it is, actually. It only started last week, so I’m still learning myself, but here’s what I understand so far; When I read a book, if the character that appears the most,, that I can relate to, is injured at all, then I get the same injury too, with no real explanation. So, needless to say, the amount of books I actually read now, has been stunted.
I don’t know how all the heroes handle it, really. All the pain ad grief they go through is more than enough for the entire world to share. And - I’m not looking for sympathy, that’s not the way I am – if I want to carry on reading, I have to take ALL their pain. I’m still trying to find out if there’s a reason for it, something I’m meant to do. There must be some explanation for it.
I didn’t realise until this week, but this sudden discovery of mine hasn’t only just started – its been happening since I began reading. Things that beforehand, I would have just put down to an over imaginative 4 year old, I now know were something much different. The feel of fur under my hands when the little girl in my book got a pet dog and the scratch on my knee when she fell over, all makes more sense now. But this all stopped when I turned 10, and then I turned 14 last week, and that’s when my discovery happened. So, between my 10th and 14th Birthday, something happened to stop my unusual empathy.
As I continued thinking, my thoughts sailed me off to the realm of sleep….
*Beep Beep! Beep Beep!*
I woke with a start – I was never prepared for my alarm, although why I would naturally be waking up at 6.00 every morning was beyond me. Groggily rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I swung my legs off the bed. Glancing out of my window, whatever happiness the morning had brought me wilted. It was snowing. Really snowing. Don’t get me wrong, snow can be great. But snow at school, with idiotic boys chucking it at each other, regardless of who gets in the way? Not so great.
Sighing, I trudged into the kitchenette me and my roomie shared, wishing more than anything in the world that I could just curl up and go back to sleep. In my head, that’s exactly what I did. I pictured myself heading back to my room and collapsing in bed. In reality, I searched the cupboards for some breakfast. My imaginary self laughed at me in her sleep. Yeah, very funny. Laugh at me getting an education. Then I realised I was internally telling myself off, so I stopped. Finding the Nutella, I headed to the toaster.
What do you put in a toaster? I asked myself.
The fun I had on Monday mornings was unbelievable.
However, as weird as I seemed to my mum, I was still pretty popular at school. Not the 'Queen Bee' or anything, but not the social dork either. I had surrounded myself with a group of people that I trusted, and that made me happy. School was almost an escape from the books, but I dreaded every English lesson, wondering if the book the class would read would lead to me inexplicably breaking a limb – or worse.