Celia

II

I’m snapped back into consciousness by the pounding headache that’s taken up residence beside my left temple. Reaching up a hand to assess the damage, I’m surprised to feel no bumps or lumps or anything out of the ordinary. I bolt upright.

Bad idea. An agonisingly long second passes before I recover from the wave of dizziness that sweeps over me, sending the walls crashing into the floor. Fingers still pressed to my head, I force my eyes open. My eyes become accustomed to the light slowly, allowing me to take in my surroundings.

The walls are painted a moody purple colour, covered in posters of obscure bands and the main male character from the latest instalment of a popular film franchise. The bed on which I lay was in the corner of the room, diagonally across from the closed door. A large window took up most of the opposite wall. The pale light that streamed through it was too concentrated for it to have been morning.

A small wooden desk was buried underneath a pile of textbooks, a mismatched chair tucked underneath it. Next to the desk was a white chest of drawers, covered in glittery stickers and photos. Propped up on top of the drawers was a mirror that reflected the curls of my hair as they spread across the pink and purple striped pillowcases.

I was in my bedroom.

However much it embarrasses me to admit it, the first thought running through my head wasn’t the expected one: how did I get here?

My first thought was that I looked okay. Wow, that sounded vain. What I mean is, when I looked at the mirror there was no visible injury where I had hit my head on the bike wheel. In fact, the only thing to suggest the whole incident had ever happened was the headache.

I watched as my reflection’s fingers gently prodded at the spot where my head was hurting. The skin felt tender, but other than that there was nothing unusual. I frowned, and then winced.

It must’ve been a bad dream, I decided, shaking my head slightly. All I needed was some Paracetamol and a long sleep. And of course, it was then that I caught sight of the satchel.

And then I was up on my feet, grabbing my jacket off the back of my desk chair and scrambling around in the pockets for my phone. I was already beginning to type in Megan’s number as I drew it out. Pressing the smooth surface of the screen to my ear, I prayed that she would pick up.

“Come on Megan,” I whispered, tapping my fingers impatiently on the desk. My nails made a soft clicking sound like that of high heels on a wooden floor in sync with the dial tone.

“Hey this is Megan, sorry I can’t take your call right now-” I groaned in frustration, trying to squash the rising panic I could feel.

I’d never felt more out of control then I did in that moment.

***

It’s incredible how fast you can run when you’re terrified.

I’d checked to see if my bike was in the shed – its usual accommodation – but it wasn’t there. I’d decided I’d worry about that later. The sun battled with the clouds, trying to break through, but it wouldn’t have mattered if it did.

Megan didn’t live far away, and the route to her house was a familiar one: out of the latticing of streets and underneath the subway before reaching her cul-de-sac. I tried to focus only on the sound of my footsteps pounding the pavement, and my heavy breathing in between the offbeat rhythm.

It began to rain.

I barely even noticed at first, concentrating so much on the sound of my feet hitting the ground. It was only when the noise of that was drowned out by the roar of a whitewash that I finally felt the fat droplets plastering my hair to my skull and soaking through my thin coat.