Escape (Solaris Cane: Book One)

Escape - Chapter 1

Death.

Gnashing teeth.

Unforgiving stares.

All directed at me.

Someone grabs me and I scream.

“Solaris, honey, wake up. It’s just a bad dream.”

I open my eyes, gasping for breath. I grab for Mom, hoist myself up and hold on to her tightly as she rubs my back, soothing me.

When I finally calm down, I loosen my grip and ask, “what time is it?”

“It’s five thirty in the morning, honey,” she smiles as she tucks the green blanket securely around me.

I nod as I lie back down, but I know it’s too late to go back to sleep and too early to do anything else.

Mom knows this, too, so she simply stays with me and talks.

“How long has it been since the last one?” She asks, shifting her position so that she’s leaning on my headboard next to me, stroking my hair.

“A month or so ago,” I answer, looking back to her.

She doesn’t say anything because she knows I get mad when she says I’m getting better, like I’m sick in the first place.

“Do you want to go to grandma’s grave today?” Mom sighs as she stands to leave, stopping at the doorway.

“Do I have a choice?” I ask.

“Not really,” she replies. “It’s grandma’s death anniversary, Solaris.”

“I know.” I shift so that I’m resting on my side, facing the door.

“Be at the cemetery by four thirty, then,” she says as she closes the door.

I don’t want to sound mean or anything, but I don’t even remember Grandma Cane. Mom says I’ve met her and I used to spend a lot of time with her when she was still alive, but I don’t remember anything before the accident.

The doctors have been trying to make me remember, but I just really can’t. Even after four years, my memories won’t return.

I've seen the videos, looked at the pictures and heard countless retellings of my childhood, but, so far, none have been able to bring back anything.

After minutes of trying to remember, which I do every now and then, I swing my legs over the side of the princess sized, wooden bed and stand.

I look at myself in the mirror on the fancy, white vanity across my bed and I feel all the emptiness, the void I know only my lost memories can fill. I swallow and snap out of my momentary depression.

There’s a smell in the air, and it’s very pleasant. I smile as I realize what it is.

Mom just cooked me some pasta! I practically fly downstairs and into the kitchen.

Yes, I know. Pasta for breakfast? Ridiculous! But to hell with convention. I am having great food for breakfast.

“This is better than last week’s pasta!” I groan in satisfaction as I take a seat on the circular, swivelling stool.

At least once a week, Mom makes me pasta, and it tastes heavenly.

She smiles as she eats her own, setting a plate aside for Dad and Rory, my little sister on the other end of the granite table.

I glance at her as she eats. Mom and I have a lot of the same features. We have the same pale blue eyes, the same straight dark brown hair, and maybe a bit of the same facial structures. But I can’t really say I look like her.