Leaving Laurabelle Falls

Chapter 1

"You were in a wreck." My mother explained. She patted her own hand, still gripping mine, twice. "Do you remember anything?"

I struggled to wrack my brain. I remembered cereal, for some reason. Did I eat some?

I heaved a soft sigh of frustration, and shook my head. The cereal was the last thing I remembered, when I first woke up.

The other memories would come later. The real ones, and the rest.

"I don't." I said. Then, a flash of green, and panic welled up inside of me. "Dad's car, is it-"

"You were with Madeline." She interrupted. Another, stronger wave of panic. Before I was even able to voice my concern, my brother's voice cut in again.

"Maddie is fine. She's been feeling insanely guilty, but it wasn't her fault. Visits you every few days. The other driver was drunk, and slammed directly into the passenger side of the car." He explained.

"Every... Few... Days?" I asked.

Suddenly, I felt dizzy. My stomach heaved, and I knew that if I had had anything in it, I would have been throwing up. How much of my life had I missed? How much of my golden summer was gone? Had I missed the sunny California beaches and parties with my friends?

Had school already started?

Oh, God. Could I walk?

"How long have I been out?" I asked. My mother let go of my hand then, glancing over towards Noah. His lips were pressed into a thin, ghostly pink line. I thought he had looked a little thinner than the last time I had saw him, which only plunged me further into my panic.

If I hadn't been hopped up on whatever drugs the hospital had been giving me, I would have probably started hyperventilating.

My vision was suddenly blurry.

"Two months." The nurse responded. Looking back, it was probably pretty fast. But to me, it had felt like a lifetime of wondering how much of mine I had lost. "It probably felt much longer to your family, but really, it isn't the worst case scenario. I can't make any promises, but at this point, you're still expected to make a full recovery."

I felt the tension leave my body, but my head was still swimming.

God, it was hard to think.

"Only two?" I asked. I had missed most of the summer, but I knew it could have been worse.

"Only two." The nurse responded.

Already, my eyes were feeling heavy again. My lids were having trouble staying open, and my limbs felt glued to the bed. I moved the arm my mother wasn't holding, just to make sure that I could.

It hurt, but I could still do it. I could still move.

"If you need to go back to sleep," She said, "You can. Your body will still be adjusting to the waking world. You're going to need some time before you can really be alert."

I tried to nod.

"Just promise me you'll wake up again." My mother insisted.

I don't know whether or not I stayed awake long enough to respond.

There is a kind of haze that overshadows you when you're in that inbetween state, wanting to be awake but your body still not convinced you're ready to be. I can remember little bits of conversation between my mother and another, older voice. The doctor overseeing my care.

"-Her dreams might be more vivid." She explained. I can remember that. "She'll have difficulty knowing exactly what is and is not reality. She'll have a series of-" And it cuts out. "-physical therapy, probably regular therapy, too. This is not a normal teen experience, she'll feel-" I can only assume the next word was "alone", but I can't remember actually hearing it.

I tried to shift to my side, into my typical sleeping position. My arms and legs didn't want to cooperate and my muscles hurt like I was seizing. I felt a dull prick and knew I had to stop moving my arm.

Right. I was hooked up to a million machines.

I gave up and let myself fall back into the half-sleep trance. At one point, I felt my brother's hand softly resting on my head, and my body suddenly felt numb.

In my twilight, I dreamed of being on a riverboat. Lanterns floated in the sky, illuminating towering trees to either side of me.

Sometimes, in my darkest moments. Sometimes, when the horror and trauma and vivid recollection all get to me, sometimes.

Sometimes I wish I hadn't woken up again.