[7]

20.9K 1K 169
                                    

 CHAPTER SEVEN

The dream starts like any other.

I'm in a field on a sunny, clear-skied day. The long grass sways in the warm breeze, tickling my ankles, and the wind brushes against my cheeks, warming them. I'm walking towards my house – the house I lived in as a young child – when Sarah skips into my view, smiling.

"Hey Melly," she teases, knowing how much I hate the nickname.

I don't let her see my annoyance, instead opting for a happy reply. I'm in a good mood today. "Hey Sarah," I say, smiling.

"My mum said that we can have a sleepover at my place, but that we have to wait until the weekend..." she pauses, and I nod, my dream-self recalling having asked her about it, "until after the storm has passed," she finishes.

Frowning, I look up, and sure enough, large grey clouds have swept in over the horizon, blotting out the golden rays of sunlight. The field abruptly seems a whole lot gloomier; its beautiful green grass looks grey, as if someone has changed the setting on a camera from colour to grey scale.

And suddenly I'm fifteen, and so is Sarah. Her face has matured – the chubbiness has fallen away to reveal prominent cheekbones and a slightly pointed chin – and her blonde hair has darkened to a light brown. Her brown eyes have darkened, too, and something tells me that her experiences have hardened her – taught her to put up defences and stay hidden behind masks of smiles and laughter.

She extends her hand for me to hold, as if we're still five years old and carefree, and I take it, shocked by the cold that seeps into my skin where our hands touch.

"You're cold," I say. "You sure you don't need a jumper?" I cast a look down at her arms, free of goose bumps, and shiver in the icy breeze.

"No. I don't feel the cold."

And then I wake up.

-:-:-:-:-

I go through my normal morning routines – brushing my hair and teeth, eating breakfast, getting dressed – without being mentally present. While I'm saying good morning to my mother, my head is thinking of Sarah – of her cold hands and dark eyes – and of how much she reminds me of myself. While I'm chatting to my father about California, my mind is trying to convince me that it was just a dream – that Sarah probably does in fact feel the cold and that she is in no way like me.

At school, I'm still shaking off the remnants of my dream as I do equations in math. I try to focus on the equations in front of my eyes – on the x's and y's – but they all jumble up together until they're indecipherable.

It's not until lunchtime that thoughts of her finally leave me, and I sit alone under the tree on the field, the grey clouds up above threatening to rain. Caden joins me halfway through lunch, mentioning how his Geography teacher kept him back for not doing his homework.

I only nod, not really in the mood to talk.

He looks up at the sky. "I suppose you'll be moving soon."

I shoot him a glare, telling him to stay off the topic, but he either ignores it or doesn't see it. "How long now do you think? A week? Two?

"Can we please not talk about this?" I snap. I regret it instantly. "Sorry, I'm just not in a good mood."

"You don't have to apologise. I can understand why you'd prefer to stay off that topic." He smiles sadly, and a feeling of warmth spreads through me at his kindness. He's the first person to ever accept me for me, disease and all. I try to ignore the questions that accompany that thought – questions like Why? – but I fail. Years of being treated unkindly have made me overly suspicious and sceptical.

Cold Fire [SAMPLE]Where stories live. Discover now