prince in jeans

o n e

Earlier that year

The pain only sunk in when I took my first breath.

I'll admit lying in front of a car with one arm under the wheel wasn't particularly comfortable anyway but once I actually forced my lungs to work, my ribs exploded in pain, my whole chest felt like it was slowly contracting and my limbs felt paralysed.

It was like I was in a silent movie. Everyone around me moved, sluggishly and I was just faintly aware of someone screaming my name. Terrified faces loomed above me, mouths open, eyes wide but they all fused into one which made my head pound.

The rest was a lethargic blur. Ambulances, paramedics, sirens, bright lights, doctors, anaesthesia...

And when I woke up, the hospital bed, clean white sheets, headache...

My father in his leather jacket, ripped jeans and boots...

Doctors in white coats and clipboards...

But not once did she come.

Even when I was in hospital, she didn't come to see me.

I would've hated her for it if I hadn't been used to it already.

She was always 'too busy' or it 'slipped her mind.' But it didn't matter to me anymore.

So I spent my days in hospital with my father, him sneaking in take-out food for me, me giggling even if it hurt my ribs.

After I was released, I was whisked off back home, broken ribs, crushed arm and all.

But I made a 'miraculous and rapid recovery' and in less than a month, I was back on my feet again.

"Twenty-one years of age and still, you managed to get hit by a car," my father teased as I made my way into the kitchen with a yawn that morning.

"That was a month ago, Dad," I replied, rubbing my eyes and yawning, loudly, again.

My father laughed, sipping his coffee. "I'll never let you live it down, kiddo."

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" I complained, grabbing myself a mug.

Dressed in a plain white vest with an open plaid shirt on top and pajamas, my father didn't look like he was an interviewer.

Not that he looked anymore like it in his combat boots and ripped jeans.

"Got a meeting at nine," he answered, glancing at the clock that was ticking above the cabinets. "Thanks for reminding me, Cel."

As my father said goodbye to me about half an hour later, he nodded towards a letter lying on the mahogany table in the hallway.

"Letter for you," he said and then he was gone.

Sipping my coffee, I picked the smooth, pale yellow letter up and immediately recognised the handwriting.

Celeste,

I heard you were finally released from hospital. I know this letter is late as I haven't had any time to write to you until now.

I owe you an apology for not being able to visit you while you were in hospital but I can't help but smile at the irony of it.

The woman training to be a doctor got hit by a car?

Marvellous.

Your father explained to me that it was an accident but give me the word and I'll sue the idiot who hit you.

I'm actually writing this letter for a specific reason other than your accident,

To make a long story short, I want you to come stay with me.