Voices

c h a p t e r 1 0 : p a i n

My ears start ringing and my eyes start to hurt. I groan, massaging my temple in vain, in hopes my headache will miraculously go away. My breathing grows shallow and quick and I can barely focus on my surroundings.

The whole world looks like it's shaking, spiralling, maybe in more ways than one.

I just put one foot in front of the other, focusing on taking one step at a time, all the way home.

You know what you did wrong, Sam, don't try to deny it.

You're not fooling anyone.

Telling the story over and over again won't help anyone, definitely not you.

It'll just help you convince yourself you're not at fault.

But we all know who's to blame.

The pain intensifies and tears pool in my eyes. Unable to continue walking, I collapse on the ground, resting the palms of my hands on the soft grass and squeezing my eyes shut tightly, willing the pain to stop.

Why is it so bad this time? It's normally very manageable. But this time, this time it's so bad to the point I think getting shot in the leg would be less painful.

I hope it won't last for too long.

I take the backpack off my shoulders and toss it to the ground in front of me before reaching for it and unzipping it, trying to feel around for my water bottle but to no avail, my mouth becoming drier and more parched as time passes.

"Stop!" I exclaim, as if that will make the pain dissipate.

I press my palms against my forehead, as if by trying to squeeze it, it'd go away. But it continues to pound and hammer away in my head, almost like a second heartbeat.

Why should it stop?

Every action has a consequence, Sam.

You deserve to be punished for your mistake.

Unable to stay in my kneeling position as my knees begin to hurt, I lie on the grass, feeling the dew on each blade of grass on my skin. This would be a perfect way to spend an evening — peaceful, quiet, lying on the grass — if it weren't for my pounding head.

"Oh it's just you, Sam," someone says, sighing in relief.

I try to open my eyes to see who it is but I can barely even move.

"Sam, are you okay?"

I recognise that voice. Jasmine. It's definitely her.

But why is she speaking to me? Where am I?

"Jas?" I mutter, still clutching my head in agony.

"What happened?" she asks, exasperated, placing a hand on my shoulders.

"Headache," is all I manage to say.

"I'll go and get some medicine for you—"

"It's no use, Jas," I say, cutting her off, forcing myself to open my eyes.

I take a look around, realising that, somehow, in my dazed state, I managed to find myself in Jasmine's backyard.

"I'm so sorry for intruding," I apologise, my eyes flickering to the baseball bat clutched in her hand. "I'll get going now."

"You look really bad, Sam," she replies, a hint of concern and caution in her voice. "Do you want to come in? Or do you want me to call your parents or bring you home?"

Why does it feel like she's threading on thin ice around me? It doesn't make sense. Doesn't she know that I've learned from my mistakes?

Have you really?