Chapter 7

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JANUARY, 2009

Dan

I wake up in my bed.

My head pounds, and I roll over into my pillow, burying my head in it, but as soon as I breathe in, I'm met with the smell of lavender, and I wrinkle my nose up, confused. This house, even at its best, smells like mildew and dust.

Nothing has been fresh here for years.

Thoroughly confused, I sit up, throat constricting as I see that I'm wrapped up in an unfamiliar blanket in an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar time.

I untangle myself from the warmth of the blanket, shivering when the cold air touches my skin.

My clothes are wet.

Why?

I look down at them, plucking my damp t-shirt away from where it clung to my skin. I frown, wrapping my arms around myself in an attempt to stop my violent shivering.

The room spins and I lean against the wall to ward off the floors magnetic pull on me.

Where am I?

All of a sudden, the door swings open and I stumble back, knocking my head into the wall, biting my tongue in the process.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to scare you! I didn't know you were awake yet."

It's Phil.

"No, it's fine," I say, heart still racing.

Memories come back in flashes.

The rain. The water slamming against the rocks. Falling.

Falling.

There is a moment of silence.

"Where... where am I?"

"You're in my apartment," Phil says, leaning against the door frame, hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets. "I...you freaked when I tried to take you to hospital, wouldn't let me take you anywhere near it, so I just took you back to mine. I didn't know what else to do, I'm sorry. I hope this is okay."

The embarrassment lights my cheeks on fire.

I swallow hard and try not to think about how very different this situation would be had I woken up in a hospital bed rather than Phil's.

"How are you feeling?"

"Just a bit cold and lightheaded."

This is an understatement.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, I wanted to get you out of your wet clothes but I didn't think.. you would.. want me to..."

"It's okay. Thank you."

The room fills with an awkward silence for a minute before Phil straightens up, his face bright again.

"I'll go get you some dry clothes to change into."

"Oh, you don't have to."

"No, of course I do," he says firmly. "I'll be back in a minute. You should lie back down. You aren't looking so good."

I want to open my mouth, tell him I'm fine, tell him to stop worrying about me, want to ignore the headache that's driven a spike through my skull and my throbbing ribs and the way Phil's face has started to swirl, but instead I just give a small nod and turn back around to collapse onto the bed.

Looking satisfied, Phil exits the room, and I stare up at the ceiling, twisting my shaking hands into the blankets beside me.

God, Phil doesn't deserve any of this. Why did I have to call him? Stupid.

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