There are always two sides to a story, yet this story seems to have multiple.
Mine is the hard one, the whole break up. The one where I try to hide what I feel, but fail miserably. Repeatedly. The one where most people feel sorry for you, they pity...
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I can't remember much of what happened before.
I had begun to study for one of my assessments but then fallen asleep. Everything was great, a normal Thursday. I was laying on my bed, unconscious. That was the last time that I had my own room, my own personal space to do as I wished.
It was beautiful. Designed and decorated exactly how any fashionable teenager wanted. A walkable closet full of clothes I had and would never wear, a huge mirror to check that everything from my hair to my shoes were in place, a big neon blue sofa for my lazy ass to enjoy.
I had one little corner all for my piano. I would spend hours practicing and singing aloud for my family and the staff. I would glide by fingers against the glossy keys and start playing some random piece by heart. That corner had musical notes I had painted a few years ago.
I had shelves full of stuffed animals, but I didn't use or look at them. They were just there to comfort me. What I did use a lot was the latest squared-shaped computers that were available at that time. I had my own little table where I would sit down and play games or study.
Pictures of Oli, Noah, my annoying brother, and I goofing around at a fair; probably on a sugar rush because of too much cotton candy; were framed and put on the walls. The ceiling above my bed was covered in sticky notes that had written inspirational quotes or parts to songs I had imagined.
It was all I had ever wanted, all I'd needed. But in a blink of an eye, it was all gone. All turned to ashes, and so did my life.
I woke up choking and coughing out, tears in my red, dry eyes. I rubbed them gently and adapted to the new light.
I would have gone back to sleep, but the light seemed strange, warm, and too big to be normal.
Slowly, I realized that the hallway was on fire. It hit me so hard, harder than a train. I jumped so fast that stumbled onto the ground in pain, I had a leg cramp.
I got as close to the consuming fire and tried to devise some way to get out. But the flames didn't let me see anything past all the smoke.
I coughed again, this time, turning around to open the window. When I did, I stuck my head out and breathed deeply fresh air, until I could think.
I had to get out. But how? I wanted to jump out of the window, but would I survive a three-story high fall? Or would I be crippled for the rest of my life?
I was knocked out by the sudden blast of flames. I hit my head and looked straight at them. To the eye of the fire. It laughed narcissistically, ready to put me in my forever slumber.
Out of a sudden, everything was on fire. My notes were falling from the sky, one touching my skin and burning me. The ground was surprisingly cold, but I couldn't breathe.
My heart raised up to the race, trying to catch up and do everything at once. My stress and fear weren't making its job any easier. I felt it running a million miles per hour, thumping and pumping blood and my nervous system stabbing adrenaline into my muscles. It was a survival instinct, a natural instinct.
